


Conflict of interest

by Shotgun_Cake



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (Andrés de Fonollosa as a divorce lawyer: am I hilarious or what?), (I Don't), (YoU dOn'T sAy!! tHeRe ArE dIvOrCeS iN tHis?? ShOcKeR...), (nothing explicit), (very mild angst don't sweat it I got you), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Angst, Divorce, Divorce Attorneys specifically, Drunk Texting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Humor, Inaccurate divorce proceedings, Liberal use of legal terminologies like I know what they mean, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Slow Burn, Sober Texting, Strong Language, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and they were rivals-, formal emails in a professional setting, inaccurate justice system, mentions of violence and abuse, oh my god they were rivals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: As a divorce attorney, Andrés de Fonollosa is everything Martín Berrote is not. Bespoke three-piece suits, astronomical hourly fees, and a law practice to his name. If Martín didn't want him so much, maybe he’d want tobehim.~~~OR: Berlermo as rival divorce lawyers
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 155
Kudos: 175





	1. Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/gifts).



> Wishing the happiest of birthdays to my Beloved™ dashwood. You're an insanely skilled person and an amazing friend, and knowing you has brightened my year in so many ways. I hope you smile today (and all the other days) and I love you ♡
> 
> For everyone else: here’s the Rival Divorce Lawyers AU you didn’t ask for.
> 
> Beta-read and peer-reviewed by [boom slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap) ♡
> 
> Moodboards by [thorined](https://twitter.com/thorined) ♡

A divorce is a messy, depressing, chaotic affair. 

Many mild-mannered, self-repressed divorce attorneys will tell you that it’s not. That it’s a simple legal procedure. That no one _wins_ or _loses_ in a divorce. That the goal is for everyone to come to a mutual understanding.

And those attorneys are fucking hypocrites. They are frauds, they are worse than the sharks that prey on the vulnerable spouses by promising them victory and money and revenge. At least, those cunning pricks are honest. They don’t just tell their clients what they want to hear; they face the harsh realities of broken families, and offer a strategy to come out on top of this burning pile of emotional garbage.

Señor Martín Berrote, of the _Madrid Legal Corporate Firm,_ is of the latter category. He knows divorce is a war. And he doesn’t pretend not to enjoy it. 

But in this war, the spouses are merely politicians at the head of feuding nations – they're filled with fire and righteous anger, but they are not the soldiers on the battlefield. That part belongs to what is delicately called their _‘representation’._ Or their _‘counsel’._ Soft language. A whole other load of crap. Attorneys are fucking warriors, fighting tooth and nail for a cause that isn’t even theirs. 

And most of those attorneys – those who aren’t full of shit – absolutely _love_ it. 

Martín does. And no matter all the grievances he could voice against Andrés de Fonollosa, he has to admit that's an issue on which they agree. 

Divorce _is_ a war. 

And sometimes, it’s not just the words exchanged that are filled with violence.

* * *

_“Please,_ tell me I misheard. Señor Berrote, you punched a client?”

Judge Sierra is almost shouting, which is very uncharacteristic of her. Martín enjoys seeing her like this. Agitated. About to snap. Getting under people's skin is part of the job. A talent, really. And the fact that he managed to affect even _her?_ That's no small feat.

“Punched a client?”, he repeats, offering the court his most genuine expression of shock, the wide eyes, the raised eyebrows, all of it. “No, of course I didn't punch my client. That would be wildly unprofessional.”

He pauses, as though gathering his thoughts before the big finish.

“No, I punched _Fonollosa’s_ _client_.” 

Martín cannot help but smile when he thinks about that day. He notices Ágata tensing by his side, and gives his colleague a little tap on the shoulder before turning away from her. 

The judge isn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes are closed and she's rubbing her temples, taking deep breaths. What a sight.

“What I don’t understand, Berrote, is why you failed to mention this _before_ today's hearing.”

Martín stands up abruptly.

“It was _months ago,_ You Honor. I didn't think it was relevant to his divorce. And I was never hiding that I punched him. I'm pretty open about it actually. Ask anyone.”

Martín has seen Judge Sierra angry many times before. Angry at him, specifically, on most of these occasions. But this is different. She seems _done._ He cannot believe he finally broke her.

What a great day this is.

“But when you punched Señor Gandía, he was still _your_ client at the time. Correct?”

Such misinformation in this courtroom.

“César Gandía was never _technically_ my client”, Martín starts, throwing Fonollosa his widest smile, then turning to the judge again. “He did drop by the office to hire me, yes, but he never got around to actually signing that check. Because of the punching, I presume. And now, look at us. He found himself a new lawyer, I found myself a new client. Isn't life funny sometimes?”

Martín's new client, as it turns out, happens to be Señora Gandía. 

Because Martín contacted her himself. The moment her husband stormed out of his office. Gandía probably hadn’t even left the building by the time his wife agreed to hire Martín. That’s how good he is. 

He wasn't going to let that case fly under his nose just because the client happened to be the worst human on Earth. 

Actually, scratch that off. César Gandía is not the worst human on Earth.

The worst human on Earth is sitting right next to him, and has the audacity to look so fucking hot in his lawyer robe that Martín is trying very hard not to stare at him for too long.

He looks over at the judge instead. 

“Your Honor, I maintain that this event is completely unrelated to the divorce. However, if it could impact my client's case in any way, I _will_ offer a gesture of good faith. _Madrid Legal_ has security cameras in the offices. I can disclose to the court the footage of Señor Gandía's visit.”

Fonollosa stands up immediately, ready to call his bluff. 

But before he can say a word, his client grabs him by the shoulder and starts whispering in his ear furiously. The face Fonollosa pulls, with Gandía's hands on him, is one of the most hilarious things Martín ever got to witness.

“My client has chosen to withdraw his complaint, Your Honor”, Fonollosa eventually announces, his eyes trained on Martín. “If his wife wishes to lower herself to keeping Berrote as her attorney, we will not oppose her choice of representation.”

_“Hijo de pu–”_

“Recess!”, Sierra cuts in, and she sounds as exhausted as Martín feels. “Fonollosa, Berrote, take a walk or something. The hearing will resume in thirty minutes.”

Martín, in spite of his earlier outburst, is very happy with this turn of events. 

With Gandía's decision to withdraw his complaint, most of all.

Turns out _Madrid Legal_ is a hellhole. They barely have decent furniture in the office. Let alone security cameras. 

And even if they did, that imaginary footage wouldn't have played in his favor. 

Martín lied in court today.

* * *

He gives a desperate slap on the side of the machine when he sees they’re out of hazelnut again. 

That was the only vaguely drinkable beverage that the courthouse’s ancient coffee dispenser had to offer. His choices are now narrowed down to _foul espresso_ or _suspicious latte._

He sighs deeply, carefully weighing his equally lame options. 

Before he can reach a decision, however, he’s more than a little distracted by the warm body plastered across his back, nearly pressing him against the machine. A soft breath caresses the side of his neck, a hand slides against his waist, and– 

Martín is dragged out of his daze by the loud clang of a coin falling and bouncing inside the coffee machine.

Of fucking course.

“Hey, I was going to use that!”

The man laughs as he pushes the _‘espresso’_ button, and Martín knows it’s him even before he sees his face. Uncomfortably close. His chin propped on top of Martín's shoulder. 

That laugh, as well as the man it belongs to, are the bane of his existence.

“You couldn’t just wait your turn, could you?”

He weasels out of the Fonollosa/Berrote/Coffee Machine sandwich and takes a step to the side, huffing and puffing his indignation. 

“I believe I’ve earned my coffee more than you”, Fonollosa replies, disdain painted on his face. “Unlike a certain colleague of mine, I didn’t spew out lie after lie in that courtroom.”

Okay, then.

Please, _please,_ let this be a shot in the dark. It has to be. The guy has nothing on him.

Fonollosa turns to Martín again. Smiling.

“You never punched Gandía, did you?”

Shit. 

Martín tries a different approach and returns his smile, a sickly sweet abomination that hurts his face from how fake it is.

“Of course I did. When people use bad words, they get punished. And you should know your client used _very bad words._ So I punched some manners into him. It's one of my fondest memories.”

Fonollosa rolls his eyes, and Martín should have known he’d see right through him.

“Who was it, Berrote?”

“Listen, I don’t know what your problem is–”

“Because based on how scared Gandía seems to be about that footage getting out, I'm assuming he’s embarrassed by what happened. Which leads me to believe he was punched by a woman.”

If Martín weren’t so busy mildly panicking right now, he might actually be impressed.

“And I know for a fact that you share an office with Jiménez…”

“How the fuck do you know–”

“Now the real question is, why would anyone ever choose to compromise their professional integrity and take the blame for someone else’s mistakes?”

Solid question. 

Ten points to the Spaniard in the lawyer robe.

Why take the blame?

Because Ágata helps him out all the fucking time, so it wasn't that big of a deal for Martín to repay the favor for once. 

Because this was the third potential client that she’d punched in the last six months, and that strike could have gotten her fired. 

Because she would have been called ‘hormonal’, and ‘unstable’, and ‘hysterical’, while Martín is just some guy who had a manly disagreement and chose to fix it with his fists. _‘Male privilege’,_ Ágata would sigh, a tired look on her face. 

Mostly, he lied for her because he really did want to punch Gandía anyway, with his macho attitude and his racist comments, and it felt so fucking good to publicly take credit for his broken nose. Some of Ágata's finest work.

“Because I'm a very nice person”, is what he says to Fonollosa. “You should try it sometimes. Doing something for someone else. Maybe you'll find it rewarding.”

Fonollosa smiles at his provocation and raises an arm between them, slowly reaching for the dangling collar of Martín’s lawyer robe. The condescending jerk.

“You baffle me sometimes, Berrote”, he says, fiddling with the white fabric. “Every time I think I have you all figured out, you go ahead and do something like that. Something that doesn’t make sense. That I failed to predict. I find it fascinating.”

He didn’t say _‘I find you fascinating’,_ but with the way he’s staring into Martín’s eyes, he might as well have. 

Martín can feel heat rising to his cheeks already, and that’s simply unacceptable. 

Fonollosa isn't _actually_ coming onto him. That's just how he is. The guy has no boundaries.

Finally, he takes a step back to grab his coffee from the machine, and Martín can regain a semblance of composure. 

“Can I get you anything? Not that the coffee here is any good, but still. You're going to need a lot of energy today...”

So he's either implying he can't afford his own coffee, or taunting him about what a strenuous effort it is for Martín to face _him_ in the courtroom. Either way, he's a jerk. 

Of course, there’s also the very valid option that he’ll spike his drink. 

Fonollosa seems to read the distrust radiating from him.

“It's just coffee, Berrote”, he insists. “An olive branch, if you will... You and I can be civil every once in a while, no?”

This friendly demeanor is worse than the animosity he’s used to. Martín understands their rivalry. He prefers it. Thrives in it, actually. 

But the Andrés de Fonollosa who's smiling at him and offering to buy him coffee? Martín doesn't know that guy. Nor does he care to get to know him.

“Caramel Macchiato, two spoons of cocoa powder”, he mumbles, dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, and if you could draw me a little something in the foam, that would be great. Thanks.”

Fonollosa shakes his head and grins, like he finds him amusing. 

But, to Martín’s utter dismay, he does push another coin into the machine and buys him a fucking coffee. An espresso too. Which is probably what he would have picked anyway.

When Fonollosa stares at him again, he lets his eyes drift down Martín's body in a way that could only be called _shameless._ The corners of his lips are slowly rising, in that crooked smile that he always gets, right before he unleashes closing arguments sure to win him the case. And to make his opponent look like an amateur. 

Martín actively fights the urge to look away. 

His gut is tightening, and all kinds of alarms are ringing in his ears. Something like fight of flight.

He can’t quite identify the nature of the danger just yet.

Suddenly, there's a hand grasping Martín's elbow, and it is not aggressive, or threatening, but it’s not friendly either.

“I know you and I have never seen eye to eye”, Fonollosa says, low and secretive, “but I believe we could get along quite well. If we tried...”

Oh no. 

Oh fuck.

Fonollosa _is_ coming onto him. Strong.

As seduction techniques go, this one is pretty basic. Awkward, even. But the way he looks into Martín’s eyes as his fingers are slowly brushing up his arm _–_ well, fuck if it isn't _working._

“I think we should be friends. Between colleagues, we could– help each other out...”

Martín feels those words coursing through his body before his brain even processes what they mean. It’s his tone, the warmth of his hand, the way his lashes are framing his eyes. 

It’s everything about him. 

“Listen”, Martín croaks, embarrassed by the sound of his voice, “whatever game you're playing, it's not working.”

Fonollosa looks around, before taking a step towards him, then another. Martín backs away, mirroring his movements, until he finds himself with his back to the coffee machine, and Fonollosa's hand in a tight grasp around his shoulder. 

Martín has only ever seen that energy in a courtroom before. But from up close, it's something else. 

His senses are filled with him. He can tell Fonollosa smells like coffee and expensive cologne. He can see that spark in his eye, can feel the confidence he exudes. 

He wonders if his lips are as soft as they look.

“Get your hands off me!”, Martín barks.

To his credit, Fonollosa does let go of his shoulder. 

Martín can vaguely feel his hand as it brushes against his hip, his side and– he withdraws his arm, the coffee cup he just retrieved in his hand, a smile on his face. 

Twice.

Twice _in a row._

Shame on Martín Berrote.

“I believe this is yours.”

Martín grabs the cup from his hand and Fonollosa backs away to a respectful distance. He casually takes a sip from his own drink, as though he didn't just have Martín pressed against the coffee machine. For the second time today. 

If he wasn't so fucking flustered right now, Martín would have been incredibly jealous of that move. Great creative choice. Perfect execution. 

He came _this close_ to ordering Fonollosa to fuck him right then and there. 

Against the coffee machine. 

In this very well-travelled courtroom corridor.

Martín shakes his head, trying to get a fucking grip, and takes a sip of his espresso. He's surprised to find it's not entirely horrible. There’s sugar in it. How kind, how thoughtful. 

He hopes Fonollosa chokes. 

“Don't you have somewhere to be?”, Martín asks, a bit more aggressively than he needs to.

“We’re not due back in court for another fifteen minutes, are we? Perhaps we could continue this little chat in a more... _private_ location.”

So he’s really going there. 

“Be careful about what you say. You almost sound like you're trying to get in my pants.” 

“I am”, Fonollosa replies, unfazed. 

In spite of everything he knows, Martín’s breath catches in his throat. 

“You are… what?”

“Trying to get in your pants. Well, under your robe.” 

His voice is almost caressing him, his eyes are piercing through him. 

“Unless I’m not your type?”, Fonollosa adds with a smirk.

At this point, this isn’t just intimidation anymore.

This is _mockery._

Martín is absolutely calling his bluff.

“Some days, when I’m feeling frisky, I don’t wear anything under the court robe. Wanna check if it’s one of these days?”

Fonollosa looks at him with wide eyes. 

Oh boy, did he not expect Martín to be flirting back. 

“I refuse to believe that.”

“How about you get me alone somewhere and find out for yourself? There’s a very decent storage space in the department of archives. It’s quite roomy, there’s even a little couch. And it locks from the inside.”

Fonollosa raises an eyebrow at him.

“Is that really your best offer? A quick fuck in a storage room before court?”

Martín pretends hearing those words in that voice doesn't do anything to him. 

“For once, Fonollosa, you may be onto something. We’re running out of time for all the things I’m going to do to you. How about you find me after the hearing instead? I'll take you to archives and show you the time of your life.”

Martín doesn’t wait for an answer before he starts walking away. His face is burning and he’s struggling not to shake like a leaf. Well, he can blame caffeine for that.

He downs the rest of his coffee on the way to the courtroom. The sweetness of sugar does not get rid of the taste of frustration, bitter on his tongue.

* * *

Fonollosa won't find him after that hearing. Of course he won’t.

And still, Martín catches himself wishing he'd been a weaker man. Weak enough to take this further, to drag Fonollosa away and see how far he could have taken this little game before dropping the charade. He reckons, quite far. 

But then again, Fonollosa was playing him first.

As he waits outside the courtroom for the hearing to resume, Martín spots Fonollosa talking to a client. Not Gandía. A female client. Someone he bumped into in the lobby, unaware of Martín’s eyes trained on him. 

He's not just talking to her. Even from a distance, Martín can clearly see he's flirting. And it's _nothing_ like this pitiful little number he just pulled on Martín. How he's looking at her. His hand on the small of her back. The way he's undressing her with his eyes. This is _real._ And, considering how this woman is hooked on his every word, laughing like an empty-headed whore, she'll probably spread her legs for him before the end of the day. 

Not that Martín can blame her for that. 

This horrifying display of heterosexual mating rituals compels Martín to turn away and slip back inside the courtroom. 

He knew Fonollosa was straight, of course. 

Not _just_ straight. According to his sultry reputation, the guy is _aggressively_ heterosexual. Four divorces and a string of scandalous affairs with lonely women who may or may not have been his clients. Correction, _former clients._ So it's not technically unethical. Just plain gross. 

And in spite of that, he thrives. 

As a divorce attorney, Andrés de Fonollosa is everything Martín Berrote is not. Bespoke three-piece suits, astronomical hourly fees, and a law practice to his name. If Martín didn't want him so much, maybe he’d want to _be_ him. 

He sighs.

It's an interesting tactic. Making a move on the other party's attorney during a recess. Try and destabilize him, rile him up right before the hearing resumes. Martín is full of rage, but he has to respect the game of it. 

So he didn't take this seduction attempt seriously, not at any point. He knew exactly what Fonollosa was doing, why he was doing it, but even then– he can still feel Fonollosa's hand on his shoulder, his eyes on him, his breaths against his skin. 

Fonollosa is well aware of the effect he has on people. Martín must have looked like easy prey to him. Because he’s gay and doesn’t hide it. Because Fonollosa is so drastically out of his league. The asshole thought he could work his charms on Martín and get the upper hand on him, just like that.

And Martín almost let him.

He didn’t, though, that’s the thing. He did _not_ fall for it. 

Then why does he still feel like the butt of the joke?

* * *

Martín Berrote has one rule: if it has a law degree, don't fuck it. 

It's a simple rule. A necessary one. 

He adopted it many years ago, when he still attended the Madrid Institute. A young and ambitious Law student, surrounded by nothing but other aspiring lawyers. Arrogant pricks, the lot of them. 

Martín found, to his dismay, that most of his peers made the worst romantic and sexual partners you could imagine. Too eloquent for their own good, setting themselves up to disappoint. All talk and no action. 

On top of that, other lawyers tend to be quite exhausting to speak with – more work, really – and the pettiest, most unforgiving people you could ever meet. Let alone, that you could date. 

And that's not even mentioning the HR nightmare it would be if Martín had to refuse cases and reject clients because he couldn't keep it in his pants. 

So that's a rule of his. He doesn't hook up with other lawyers. 

And ever since the day he passed the bar exam, Martín abided by that rule. Religiously. 

Almost religiously. 

He did make the occasional exception when he found himself alone and out of town. A conference in Sevilla, a workshop in Barcelona. It’s not like the guys he met there would ever cross his path again. 

Another exception of note was when he hooked up with a gorgeous human-rights advocate from London who was here on a business trip. Logan only stayed in Madrid for ten days, and they were not wasted. Fighting child labor by day, and fucking Martín's brains out by night. Side note, Martín really needs to call him up. Find out about his travel plans for the coming year. 

But other than that, Martín has been _good._ Perfectly proper and professional. A fucking saint, and a sexually frustrated one.

Sometimes, when he looks at Fonollosa, Martín thinks about his self-imposed rule. 

Because they both work in Madrid. Because they run in the same circles of divorce courts and human misery. Because Andrés de Fonollosa isn’t just the most attractive guy Martín has ever met, he also happens to be one of the best lawyers in the city. A shark in a sea of piranhas. 

Which is why there’s always been a big warning sign above Fonollosa's head. 

_‘Big Shot Lawyer: Do Not Engage’,_ written in bright red letters.

When Martín thinks about their first meeting – one of their rare semi-cordial conversations – he wonders if it’s always been there. The warning sign. 

The desire.

There might have been a second there, fleeting, foolish, when Martín considered it. Considered _him._ When he first heard his voice, and met his eyes, and shook his hand. He felt something that day. And for the shortest of moments, he could have sworn Fonollosa felt it too. 

But then of course, they walked into the courtroom. 

And it was all downhill from there.

* * *

Martín is squirming in his seat when Judge Sierra returns to her place behind the bench. 

Señora Gandía is throwing him a confused look and he reassures her with a smile. Or at least, he tries to. He’s distracted, to be honest.

He’s _giddy._

Ágata rolls her eyes at him, and she might be the only one in the room with a vague idea of what’s coming. She knows Martín well enough for that.

“Alright, it seems we’re doing this”, judge Sierra sighs. “Before the hearing resumes, I have to inform the court that a motion has been filed against César Gandía’s lawyer.”

Fonollosa leaps from his chair so fast he could be bouncing on springs.

“On what grounds, Your Honor?”

“Conflict of interest. You were seen with Señora Gandía’s attorney during recess. I believe, trying to intimidate him and offering sexual favors. Is that correct?”

Fonollosa throws Martín a death stare that would leave your average man paralyzed with blood-curdling fear. 

Martín fights the urge to grin. 

This guy thought he could play him like a blushing debutante, didn’t he? Well, think again.

“He’s obviously lying”, Fonollosa says, his voice cold and even, fury brimming underneath. “And quite frankly, Your Honor, I’m disappointed that you, of all people, would ever believe anything coming out of Berrote’s mouth.”

Martín plays his part and looks away, fidgeting with his collar awkwardly. He probably looks like a poor, fragile little thing right now. 

Which is exactly the point. 

After all, Fonollosa made him a very rude sexual offer today. Martín is quite uncomfortable. And oh, _so intimidated._

“So you deny it, Fonollosa?”, the judge insists. “You didn’t imply anything, by your words, by your actions. You didn’t approach him in a manner one would deem unprofessional. You didn’t offer – and I quote – _‘a quick fuck in a storage room’_ before this hearing resumed.”

“I am _appalled._ I do not do that sort of thing, nor do I use that sort of language. Whatever Berrote thinks happened is a complete misunderstanding. Maybe– I can only assume, wishful thinking on his part...”

_La. Concha. De. Su. Madre._

Martín manages to keep all of his rage inside, this time around. This recess must have done him some good after all. A true breath of fresh air. 

So he waits. Ready for Sierra to hammer the final nail in the coffin.

“Señor de Fonollosa, did you know there are cameras in all the hallways of this courthouse? Including the one where you cornered Señora Gandía’s attorney during recess. Now, I won’t inflict this footage on my esteemed colleagues of the court. But having watched it myself, I am inclined to believe Señor Berrote’s version of the events to be quite accurate.”

Fonollosa’s lips are drawn into a thin line, the frown on his face closer to a squint. He’s putting on a brave face, Martín can give him that. But he’s rattled. Taken aback. Not as shaken as Martín hoped, his composure impeccable as ever. But oh, how he hates this. Being played at his own game, being exposed for the cheater that he is. Martín has never seen him so uncomfortable. 

He’s never seen him uncomfortable _at all,_ actually. 

But right now? A fucking fish out of water. A rare treat. He feels privileged to get to witness it.

“Alright”, Sierra concludes, sounding bored out of her mind. “Hearing postponed. Señor Gandía, I strongly advise you to find a different attorney before we reconvene at a later date. Next case!”

The bang of her gavel is music to Martín’s ears.

* * *

He's barely left the building when Fonollosa catches up to him. He grabs his arm, forcing Martín to stop in his tracks on the front steps of the courthouse.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“Well, it _is_ kinda funny, yeah.”

Fonollosa’s grip is tight, painful, and Martín doesn’t give him the satisfaction of watching him wince, or flinch, or pull his arm away.

 _“You_ came onto me, didn't you?”, Martín retorts, dragging teasing fingers across the hand crushing his arm. “And I’m flattered, I really am. But I have to think about the interests of my client first.” 

Fonollosa only huffs at that, but he does free Martín's arm from his grasp. 

“Are you here to collect your prize, then?”

Fonollosa squints. 

“Gandía just fired you, didn’t he?”, he explains, loving the angry frown he gets in response. “You must be _so relieved._ Now that we are no longer opposing counsels, there's no conflict of interest. We can live our romance out in the open. This love affair of ours is forbidden no more…” 

To Martín's utmost surprise, Fonollosa smiles.

“You're not my type, Berrote.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“So it _was_ a tactic”, Martín gasps, pretending to be shocked. “I'm heartbroken. I thought we had something special, you and I.” 

“Congratulations, Berrote. The Gandía divorce is all yours. Now that you won’t be facing the best lawyer in the city, try not to mess it up. You'll have no excuse but your own incompetence.”

“Okay, whatever, see you at the next hearing... _Oh wait…_ No I won’t!”

He makes a swift exit before Fonollosa can get another word in.

Getting to kick him while he’s down is probably one of the greatest moments of Martín’s life. Which is a very sad observation, but he won’t address that right now. He’s still basking in it. So rare are the days when he gets the last word.

And he _will_ get that last word. Not just with Fonollosa. 

With Gandía too.

* * *

As he keeps working on that case, Martín’s confidence only grows. Things are going well. It’s not just optimism, he’s killing it. Objectively. 

At times, he fancies himself a knight in shining armor, helping the damsel in distress (César Gandía’s unlucky wife) in her quest to vanquish (divorce) that piece of shit. 

Who would’ve thought drafting legal documents could feel so _heroic?_

After he gets rid of Fonollosa – _what a wonderful phrase_ – Gandía finds himself a new lawyer. Not half as brilliant. And a few weeks later, Martín does get the wife the nice divorce settlement he promised her. 

He has to admit, Gandía himself helps him greatly on that front. He gives the creeps to the entire courtroom whenever he opens his mouth. Or perhaps, even more so when he stays silent. The point is, Judge Sierra has no patience for toxic masculinity. 

Martín even has the luxury of finding this case boring. That's how easy it is to work on, now that Fonollosa is out of the picture. 

Which is a good thing. 

_‘Boring’_ and _‘easy’_ are good things. 

Some days, he just wants a quick paycheck, an uncomplicated case, and the comforting knowledge that he’s the best lawyer in the room. 

Martín doesn't need to be defied, to be challenged at every turn. 

Martín doesn't miss seeing Fonollosa in the courtroom.


	2. Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Surprisingly, the first time Martín Berrote found himself face to face with one Andrés de Fonollosa wasn't entirely unpleasant._

_“–sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. In the end we chose another attorney.”_

“Of _course!”,_ he nearly shouts into the phone, before adjusting his voice. “I mean, yes, I– Sure, I understand.”

Martín doesn’t even bother asking which attorney. 

He knows.

He quickly ends the call and makes a point _not_ to slam the phone back into place when he hangs up. The company won’t supply him with a new desk phone if he breaks another one.

But oh, he wants to. It would make him feel so much better to just smash the receiver on the stand. Or better yet, to fling it across the office with all his strength, watch it crash against the wall and shatter into a dozen electronic components, scattered like autumn leaves all over the linoleum floors. 

Picturing it is almost enough, almost soothing. As a child, he used to enjoy breaking things apart, toying with the pieces inside. It would calm him down, the way meditation or yoga works for some people. Well, he sure needs some of that now.

Martín is going to lose it if he has to go through even one more phone call that ends with _‘we ended up hiring Fonollosa and Associates’._

And those phone calls have been coming quite often, lately.

Because, if César Gandía was the first client that Fonollosa shamelessly _stole_ from Martín, he sure wasn't the last. 

It’s not a coincidence. Fonollosa is actively targeting Martín’s most compelling cases. It’s ridiculous, he probably has much more pressing matters to attend to. Meetings at five star restaurants and art exhibits and fundraising galas. But one could swear Fonollosa takes _time_ out of his ‘busy schedule’ to specifically pursue clients Martín wants.

And of course, he gets them all.

Fonollosa’s practice is a reputable – expensive – one. He has his pick of rich clients. And yet, he goes after Martín’s.

Martín, who has maybe one interesting case every few months, if he’s lucky. 

Martín, who’s drowning in paperwork and randomly assigned clients, because _his_ law firm, the one he’s _employed_ at – not a partner, not even an associate – does not give him the luxury to pick and choose everyone he represents. 

Martín, who’s getting tired, and frustrated, and angry _._

Fonollosa, in all his obnoxious success, doesn’t actually need those clients. He’s doing this with the explicit goal to taunt him. He’s showing off. Gloating and attacking all at once. 

This increase in hostility can clearly be traced back to that day at the courthouse. When Fonollosa thought he could play him like a fiddle, underestimated him, and Martín actually got the upper hand on him. For once.

Well, his victory has been short lived, and he’s paying the price for it now. 

Martín still treasures that moment. He vows to repeat it, to beat him again. 

So far, he hasn’t. 

Whenever Martín crosses paths with him, however briefly, the burning glares, the mocking smiles, never fail to make his skin crawl. The urge to lunge at him, to jump at his throat, has never been so strong.

Not that they were particularly friendly before that. But the word ‘ _rivalry’_ doesn’t quite cut it anymore.

Martín _hates_ him. 

He hates him for who he is, he hates him for everything he represents.

* * *

Surprisingly, the first time Martín Berrote found himself face to face with one Andrés de Fonollosa wasn't entirely unpleasant. 

And it wasn't actually the first time their paths had crossed. 

Technically, they had a law school in common, as they’d both attended the Madrid Institute all those years ago. Although, not at the same time. Fonollosa was a few years above him, and he was passing the bar exam when Martín was just a first year student. 

Still, his presence was felt all over campus. Pictures of Fonollosa here and there, trophies with his name on it, stories of his greatness whispered with admiration. Apparently the guy had been very involved in the school politics. The student events. The debate championships. 

Martín, as a student, just kept a low profile and worked his ass off until he graduated. With honors. And integrated the first law firm that offered to hire him. 

He wasn’t remembered much, back at the Institute. But Fonollosa was. 

He was kind of a legend there. With his own law practice he started before the age of thirty, and his impressive network of celebrity and high profile clients, he was the success story of the school. The prodigal son who returned every year for his highly anticipated masterclass, and the occasional commencement speech. 

And how could they not love him, when he had everything for him? When he looked the part and brightened the room, when he was said to be such a brilliant attorney, cunning and relentless, and yet effortlessly charming. Or at least, good enough at faking it. 

So they hadn’t met, while in school, and Martín had no particular prejudice against Fonollosa, besides the absolute certainty that this guy enjoyed being the center of attention, that he thrived in the spotlight. Not that Martín could ever blame him for that. Resented him, perhaps. Envied him for sure. 

The spotlight had never liked Martín very much, and he was content to pretend he was fine with that. It’s not like he could ever measure up to a guy like that.

But then Martín’s career took off too. 

And, on a seemingly ordinary morning at the courthouse, a gorgeous nightmare of a man walked up to him before his first hearing. Not taking his eyes away from the folder in his hands, not greeting Martín in any way. Just standing there beside him, a three-course meal in a three-piece suit, ignoring him entirely. 

Admittedly, Martín could have been more articulate.

“What– Who– Where’s Marquina?”

The man didn’t bother looking up from his very important documents.

“That isn’t any of your concern. Sergio got held back and I’m taking over the case. It’s not going to be a problem for you.”

He seemed bored, and mildly patronizing, but the sound of his voice took Martín by surprise. Low and deep. Warm like honey. 

Or maybe he just sounded hot, and Martín wasn’t fully awake yet.

He focused on the words rather than the stirring in his stomach.

“Makes no difference to me”, Martín blurted out.

That was a lie. He’d prepared for that hearing with the knowledge that Marquina would be representing the other spouse. He and Martín weren't the best of friends, but they had a decent work relationship. Whenever they handled a case together, surely they could come to some sort of agreement. 

But Fonollosa? Martín didn’t know anything about him. Certainly not how to face him in court. 

Still, he tried to do the polite thing for once.

“Good morning, I guess. I’m Mart–”

“That won’t be necessary.”

At last, he looked up from his page, and his gaze on Martín was even more troubling than his words. Dark eyes, focused on him, disarming. Martín’s face must have been one of outrage, because he was soon treated to a lopsided grin, just shy of mocking, and an extended arm. 

“Berrote, right? From the Institute. I’ve seen you around at alumni functions. Andrés de Fonollosa, pleased to meet you.” 

Martín shook his hand with a confidence he was mostly faking and tried not to choke.

He’d _seen_ him. 

Considering the kind of success Fonollosa met professionally, you would have expected this first meeting to go the other way around. For Martín to have needed to introduce himself, and for Andrés to have assumed he needed no introduction, because Martín would have heard of him already. 

And Martín _did_ know who he was. So he would have been right.

But Fonollosa still stated his name, and shook his hand, and smiled at him. And Martín tried not to be overwhelmed by that.

“I was actually hoping to bump into you, Berrote. Your track record precedes you. What a shame you're choosing to waste your talents at _Madrid Legal.”_

_Choosing._

Martín still feels the bile rising up in his throat whenever he thinks about that comment. 

Yes, he _knows._ He hates it too. 

It wasn't his dream to be pushing forty and still busting his ass day and night for some big company to profit off his hard work. But the law firms weren't exactly lining up to hire him out of there, were they?

“I offer my services where they are needed”, Martín coldly replied. “Not all of us can afford to reject clients left and right and still rent a whole floor for only two attorneys.”

Fonollosa's grin never wavered.

“Buy, actually” _,_ he corrected. “We _bought_ the floor for our offices. It was easier that way.”

“I'm sure it was.”

Their pleasantries were cut short by the judge's arrival, and the beginning of that specific hearing.

It was five years ago. Martín doesn't remember which judge it was. Or which client. 

What he does remember is the anger, the fury, the outrage, that overpowered him that day.

Fonollosa spent the major part of the hearing clearly doodling on his notebook, even when Martín began presenting his arguments to the judge. Which was already several levels of disrespectful.

He only saw fit to put his pencil down when Martín was halfway through his point. To clear his throat, loud and obnoxious, when he was speaking. To cut him off mid-sentence with pointless remarks. To correct his pronunciation of the client’s name. 

“That’s a lovely accent you have here, _Señor Berrote,_ but I’m afraid the court stenographer might get confused. Perhaps I should spell out the name for her...” 

“Perhaps you should get back to your stick figures and let me do my fucking job!”

Fonollosa visibly enjoyed Martín’s outburst, and actually resumed drawing as he replied.

“There’s no need for such language. I don’t know how the courts proceed in Argentina, but here we do things with a little more civility.”

Martín, with every fiber of his being, wanted to break his fucking nose.

He’d gotten his degree from the Law Department of the University of Madrid. _The Institute._ Just like him. 

Which Fonollosa knew very well, since he’d conveniently mentioned it to Martín just a few minutes ago. 

This wasn’t an innocent remark. This was a provocation. Like everything else that came out of that mouth, to be fair. 

Two could play that game. 

Martín made a point, that day, to finish the entirety of the hearing in a perfect Spanish accent. 

And not just the accent. He copied Fonollosa’s intonations, his turns of phrase. If only, to let the bastard know that Martín could sound like him, that he could _be_ like him. He simply chose not to. He could mimic him, mock him, and still present his oral argument with skill, with style. 

And Martín _was_ a good lawyer. So what if he didn’t care much for civility?

Fonollosa had kept his eyes on him.

Martín likes to pretend that he was impressed. Amused, but impressed. A small victory. 

No, he didn’t get the compromise his client was hoping for – not the one he would have gotten if he’d faced Marquina, as expected – but still, he felt some sort of accomplishment. He could rise above his status and challenge Fonollossa. Or perhaps, all he did was stoop to his level. 

The moment he passed through the door and left the courtroom, Martín reverted to his usual way of speaking. He even shook his colleague’s hand again, just to show him how _civil_ he could be. When he wanted to.

“Congratulations, _Fonoshosa”,_ he drawled, emphasizing his Argentinian flourish when he pronounced his name. “Believe me, it’s not the last time you hear that accent in court.”

“Oh, I sure hope so, I find the way you speak absolutely charming”, Fonollosa teased. “Thank you for today, Berrote. What an entertaining little thing you've been.”

He was gone before Martín could say anything. Not that he had anything to say to that.

An _entertaining little thing._

Martín took a deep breath, his fingers twitching by his sides. 

Anger, he recognized, heat rising to his face. Anger and embarrassment. 

He blamed it on it being their first encounter. Back then, he didn’t know what to expect from him. He was unprepared, taken aback. 

Next time Fonollosa would come at him like that, Martín would bite back. And he did. 

And all the times after that. 

* * *

The divorce Martín is currently working on is a sensitive one. Both spouses are cops. There's a kid, which is always tricky. And there are claims of domestic abuse. Good times.

Martín has a lot of respect for Inspectora Murillo. For the few years he’s known her, she’s been a great character witness, and she’s helped him on countless cases where the police had to get involved. As cops go, she’s pretty cool. 

So now that she’s come to him as a client, Martín feels oddly invested in the issue of her divorce. One might even say he considers her a friend.

_However._

“Raquel, if you respect me at all, you’re never showing me that again”, he groans at the third – the _third_ – kid picture she’s shoved in his face today. “You love your daughter, she’s cute, I get it. I just don’t care about– _oh my god!_ What the fuck is wrong with her?”

Raquel frowns and thankfully picks up her phone from Martín’s desk. 

“What, you mean her mouth?”, she asks, taking another look at the picture. “Kids lose their teeth, Martín. It’s very normal.”

“It’s horrifying is what it is. Okay, let me just put down _‘braces’_ on the list of things we’re demanding money for.”

Martín actually writes it down on a notebook he has laying around. That dental bill is gonna cost an arm and a leg, and Alberto should pay for it. Paula probably got her fucked up teeth from her father’s side anyway.

“Can you really do that?”

“Get you the money? Yeah, I do it all the time. One of the best parts of the job.”

“No, I mean–” Raquel fiddles with a strand of her hair nervously. “You really believe we have a shot, right. That we can ask for all this, that he won’t–”

That he won’t get full custody of Paula before he elopes with Raquel’s sister. 

Martín sighs. _This,_ however, is not the fun part of the job. 

“I won’t lie to you. I would have liked our chances better if we had the domestic abuse reports.”

The ones that are missing. The many phone calls Raquel made, the pictures she took. The few times she went to a precinct only to have the complaints she filed never appear on any record. _Those_ reports. 

“But even without those, we still have adultery. I’ll get you full custody. I promise.”

“Martín…”

Raquel’s smile is a bit tense, almost apologetic. Like she’s embarrassed by what she’s about to say. 

“What?”

“I heard Alberto hired a _really_ good lawyer.” 

Okay, rude.

“Then it’s a good thing you _also_ hired a really good lawyer, um?”, Martín reminds her. “Don’t worry about that guy. I can take him.”

As if on cue, Martín’s office phone starts ringing, and he's ready to yell at the receptionist.

“Not now Ánibal, didn’t you see the Inspectora come in today?”

 _“I did!”,_ yells the panicked voice on the phone. _“You said to call if someone from Fonollosa and Associates ever showed up.”_

Alright, now things are getting interesting.

“Did you activate The Protocole?”

_“He walked into the elevator before I could plant the stink bombs. Do I pull the fire alarm?”_

Martín smiles. Ánibal’s a good kid.

“What did Fonollosa say?”

“No, it wasn’t him, it was the other one. Something about the Pérez divorce?”

Well. 

That’s a relief. 

“He can come in, don’t worry about him.”

Martín excuses himself for a second and opens the door right when his uninvited guest is about to knock. 

Marquina greets him in a hurry and walks right into the office. He’s crumbling under an armful of files and mumbling about missing signatures and sloppy paperwork. 

“I wouldn't have come by but it's very urgent and– _Raquel?”_

Marquina looks like a deer in headlights, and the Inspectora stands up and smiles at him.

“Hi Sergio”, she greets, shaking his hand with a curious little smile he’s never seen on her. “I, um... I didn't know you worked in Madrid.”

“Are you in Berrote's office for police reasons or...”

“I'm getting a divorce.”

“Oh. Alright.”

You could cut that tension with a knife, and Martín is here for it. 

He’s worked with Marquina many, many times, and he’s _never_ seen him behave like that. 

Like an idiot. 

The guy doesn’t let on anything about his personal life, so focused, so secretive. The most interesting thing about him is probably his brother. 

But now, it turns out Sergio has layers. Fascinating.

“So, Marquina”, he chimes in, enjoying this way too much, “that _very urgent_ signature?”

“Right. Yes. It's on page three.”

Martín goes back to his desk and takes his sweet time to review the file before he signs. Some of the pages have fold lines all over. Awww... Has Marquina been stress origami-ing again? On legal documents, no less. 

Martín doesn’t make fun of him this time. Too captivated by the way Raquel and Marquina keep stealing glances at each other.

By the time Marquina finally walks out the door, Martín is almost shaking in his seat.

“Talk to me, Murillo.”

“About what? ”, she huffs, and to her credit, she is a decent actress.

Still, Martín is a bit offended that she thought he would buy it.

“Raquel, _por favor._ I’m not familiar with all of your– _straight flirting._ But I know with absolute certainty that this, just now, was the awkward handshake of two people who have exchanged bodily fluids. Of two people who have done the horizontal tango. Of two people who have fiddled with each other’s naughty–”

“Yes, fine, I know him!”

“Biblically, I’d say.”

Raquel rolls her eyes at him, but at last, she spills the beans. And oh, what tasty beans those are.

About how she went on vacation in Toledo with a couple of friends, a few months ago. She almost cancelled at the last minute, when her husband left her only two weeks before the trip, but Raquel's mother convinced her to go anyway. That a change of scenery could only do her some good.

And it sure did! 

Her friends had rented a house for the duration of their visit. A house that, in a twist of fate, belongs to Marquina, inherited from his late father (something Martín knows because at one point, he carried out quite extensive research about that family). 

This Toledo vacation must have been quite relaxing, if Raquel also ended up taking the owner of said house for a little ride.

“Oh my god! Sergio was your rebound guy!”

Martín takes a deep breath. 

This is so good. 

“I’m not proud to say but in a way, he was.”

“Hot damn, Inspectora! I mean, a torrid affair, good for you…”

“It wasn’t a–”, she snaps, trying to collect herself. “It wasn't an _‘affair’_. We just spent a few days together–

“A few nights...”

“–and we both knew it would end when my vacation was over and I had to go back to my real life. Which is exactly what happened. We both moved on.”

_Liar, liar, panties on fire._

“Why, though?”

“Why what?”

“Why did it have to end?”

The question startles her. It’s not like him to ask about that sort of stuff. It’s not like him to care. Still, she doesn’t comment on that.

“Well, I thought he lived in Toledo. And I don’t know if you forgot, but I’m in the middle of a divorce right now. I might lose my child. I don’t have room for that in my life.”

That makes sense. That’s very reasonable. 

Martín, however, is not a reasonable man.

“Raquel, I’m going to ask you a question, and you won’t want to answer it, but you have to. As your divorce attorney, I have to know this.”

She blinks a couple of times.

“What?”

“What’s Marquina like in bed?”

She groans, and doesn’t look like she’s going to reply.

“Fine, let me rephrase”, he sighs. “Trust me, I don’t actually want the details. But. Was the action memorable in any way? Or even, adequate? Adequate plus! Good enough that you’d call him back?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

Raquel sounds annoyed and is she fucking blushing? 

“It matters because, out of all the suitors in the land, the one you fucked happens to be the brother of your husband’s attorney.”

And that little fact, in addition to being absolutely _juicy,_ could turn out to be a very good thing for Raquel’s divorce. _If_ she plays her cards right. 

“And by cards, you mean…?”

“Yep, your woman– uh, _parts._ Your lady bits. Whatever it is you’ve got going on. Sergio still wants some of that, did you see his face? He does. It was hilarious.”

Raquel doesn’t seem amused. Nor is she thrilled by the brilliant plan Martín has to offer. 

He can already see it clear as day. 

Raquel and Sergio, walking hand in hand to her divorce hearing, only to find her new beau’s very own brother representing her ex-husband. The drama, the intrigue… Fonollosa would have to drop Alberto Vicuña, wouldn’t he? That would make Raquel his sister-in-law. And if he persists anyway – which is very much his style – Martín can simply snitch to the judge and get him taken off the case. For added flavor, he could claim it was Fonollosa who sent his brother to seduce his client’s wife. Imply that it was all Alberto’s idea. 

However he plays it, it’s going to be great. Entertaining. Devastating.

Except for one tiny detail. 

Raquel has chosen to be a killjoy today.

“Find something else. We’re not using Sergio like that.”

It’s like no one appreciates his vision.

* * *

Martín looks around in the crowded courtroom. 

Anywhere but at his client.

“It didn’t go well, did it?”

He doesn’t know what to tell Raquel. 

No, it didn’t. 

It fucking didn’t. 

Judge Prieto’s been talking to her in a very patronizing tone. Like she’s greedy and vindictive. Like he doesn’t believe her. 

Like he’s this close to granting Vicuña everything he asked for. 

“I’m going to fix this.”

Raquel stays silent, but he can tell she doesn’t buy it.

They’re just taking a quick break before the hearing resumes, and Martín’s eyes stay trained on Fonollosa until his distant figure disappears through the door, out of the courtroom, Vicuña in tow. 

Of course, Martín’s first instinct would be to do the same. To take his own client aside and discuss the strategy with her. 

But his eyes are drawn somewhere else. 

To the colorful pile of folders on Fonollosa’s table, where he left them while he went god knows where with his client. Probably to get coffee and bond over the fact they’re both horrible people.

The judge left the room as well. 

People are coming and going. 

No one is looking at Martín right now. And the shiny, unsupervised files are calling out to him. 

“Martín?”

He stands up and doesn’t even turn to Raquel.

“If the judge comes back, distract him.”

“What?”

Martín walks over to Fonollosa’s side of the courtroom and sits on his chair with the confidence of a man who belongs there. 

As nonchalantly as he can, he browses through the files on the table.

So many papers, so poorly organized. Documents from various cases thrown together in the same folder and– are those restaurant receipts in there? Of course, the dickhead bills his clients for their _‘work lunches’_ and _‘work dinners’_ at expensive places. It’s not like he could hold his meetings, oh, perhaps, in _his own fucking offices,_ huge, and high end, and conveniently located in the heart of the financial district...

_Focus, Berrote._

He isn’t naive enough to caress the hope of finding the perfect piece of evidence he’s been searching for. But maybe there’s something in there. Something that could help him. Something that could change everything. 

Martín skims through the files, sighing when he only finds legal documents he’s already seen, the first draft of the custody agreement, bank statements. Boring shit. He’s looking for the name Vicuña, or Murillo, something, _anything._

He gives up on the first folder and takes a peek in the second one.

His heart misses a beat.

_What the..._

_What?_

Whatever Martín though he might find in there, it wasn’t this.

The first thing he notices is that this drawing is _good._

Which is simply offensive. Of course Fonollosa would have artistic talents, on top of… well, everything else.

The second thing he notices is that the sketch represents _him._

Martín, with his arms extended by his sides, in passion, just as he was speaking to the judge a few moments ago. Martín, in his lawyer robe, a confident grin on his lips, a fire in his eyes. Martín in pencil, Martín come alive.

In this pose, with those lines, he looks powerful. More powerful than he felt in this moment, that’s for sure. 

And there’s something else. 

Martín knows he looks okay enough. He’s not modest, but he’s realistic. He’s not the best-looker in the room. But on the page, on fucking _Fonollosa’s drawing of him,_ well, Martín looks– 

He looks beautiful. 

Which makes no sense, because he still looks like himself. It’s him, he knows it is.

If he weren’t holding the sketch in his hands right now, Martín wouldn’t have believed it, not from _him._ Or is there a dash of satire in there? There has to be. 

He can’t be serious. 

This can’t be how Fonollosa _sees him._

“Has no one ever taught you not to look through other people’s things?”

Martín stands up abruptly, the heavy wooden chair making a deafening sound as it drags across the courtroom floor. If he weren’t so stunned by what he’s looking at, he’d be embarrassed by the show he’s making of himself. Or ashamed to have been caught red-handed. 

He isn’t. 

He’s agitated and confused and just a little bit upset.

“What the fuck is this?”, he snaps, shoving the drawing in Fonollosa’s face.

“You really have no manners, do you?” 

His tone is almost playful, but he’s tense. Angry. 

Fonollosa carefully plucks the sketch from his hands, examines it for creases or tears in the paper (okay, so he truly takes him for a savage, cool), and places it back into the very thick folder. A folder Martín now realizes is full of sketches, and sketches only.

“Well?”, Martín insists, still feeling like he’s owed an explanation.

“No need to get this worked up”, Fonollosa says, a patronizing hand digging into Martín’s shoulder. “Drawing my colleagues helps me gauge what kind of people they are. Evaluate the threat they’ll pose in the courtroom. Body language says a lot about someone. Words deceive, especially in our field. But the lines of your body, the contours of your face… They tell me everything I need to know. Everything you may want to hide.”

Martín feels oddly bare under his gaze. Not naked. _Bare._ Like Fonollosa is looking _within._

It’s unbearable.

“Stop that.”

Fonollosa grins, as though Martín’s annoyance is delightful to him.

“Don’t take it personally. I’ve drawn every lawyer I ever found myself against. Every judge. A few chosen clien–”

“Is this what you think I look like?”

Martín couldn’t stop himself, could he? He _had_ to know.

“Yes”, Fonollosa answers, suddenly very serious. His smile falters, but his eyes stay trained on him with a disturbing intensity. “As always, it seems you pose a challenge. Your face is incredibly annoying.”

“Shut the– _Everything_ about you is incredibly annoying!”

“Your jawline, Berrote”, he clarifies. “It’s very hard to capture on paper.”

Fonollosa grabs Martín’s chin, tilting his head to an awkward angle as he traces a fingertip along Martín’s jaw. 

Wow. 

_Wow._

This isn’t the petting zoo! 

Martín steps back and shakes him off, self conscious and _outraged,_ warmth already tingling under his cheeks. 

Fonollosa smirks at his reaction.

“Your jawline _and_ your nose. But I believe I got it right. This _is_ what you look like, Berrote. Whether you like it or not. I found that you make quite the interesting subject. Thanks for indulging me.”

“You act like I gave you permission. I didn’t.”

“Just like I didn’t give you permission to snoop through my files. If you know what is best for you, you won’t be trying that again.”

Martín should be back by his client’s side, by now. 

He meets Raquel’s eyes and turns to Fonollosa again, compelled to ask.

“Why are you even working for this guy? You know he’s been beating his wife, right?”

Fonollosa takes a seat, his perfect posture not betraying even a hint of discomfort.

“Anyone has a right to legal representation”, he recites, cool and detached. “This is a divorce court, not a criminal trial. And let me remind you that my client was never convicted for any abuse. He’s presumed innocent... _No matter what Murillo made up.”_

In an instant, Martín’s blood is boiling again.

“He was never charged because he got his cop buddies to clean up after him!”, he barks. “Look into it. Raquel made police calls. Many of them. And reports in person, too. But nothing on the records, how convenient. Where’s the paper trail, Andrés?”

Fonollosa raises an eyebrow at that. Martín has never called him by his first name, even in anger. 

Before Martín can storm away and look for a strategy to destroy him, there’s a sheet of paper in his hands. His own face staring back at him.

“Keep that one, Berrote”, Fonollosa explains, his eyes intense as ever. “I don’t need the drawing anymore. I know exactly who you are.”

* * *

Raquel Murillo is a woman of principles. The first time Martín tried to explain to her that batting her lashes at Marquina was the best way to take down Fonollosa – and by extension, to slap Alberto across the face – she was more than a little sceptical. Dismissive. 

But then that trainwreck of a hearing happened. 

And Prieto recommended shared custody for Paula, and no alimony for the bitter wife who tried to tarnish the good name of her poor husband. 

After that, no one is holding onto the moral high ground anymore. Not even Raquel.

Which is how Martín ended up spending his night hiding in dark alleys, following the Inspectora around like a fucking paparazzi. Well, in his defense, Raquel knows he’s following her. That’s the whole point. 

Sergio, however, has no idea that his _‘date’_ with Raquel has an audience.

Ánibal is very good with a camera. At least, Martín hopes he’s good. He hears him click-a-clicking – no flash, this is a stealthy mission – but he has no way to know if the hesistant, virginal way with which Marquina is holding Raquel’s hand will even show up on the pictures.

“Don’t lean on my shoulder like that, the pics are gonna be blurry”, Ánibal whines. 

“They just stopped walking”, Martín helpfully points out, watching from afar Sergio make awkward goodbyes at Raquel’s doorstep. “Are you sure they’re still in the frame?”

“I’m not letting a boomer question the way I use _my_ equipment.”

If Ánibal weren’t so fucking useful, Martín would fire him on the spot. 

(If he had firing powers. Which he doesn’t).

“How _dare you?_ I’m not even forty-five!”, he hisses. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Have some fucking respect, kid, you still smell like the milk from you mother’s tits!”

When Ánibal doesn’t reply and keeps snapping pictures instead, Martín follows his gaze just in time to watch Raquel throw herself at Sergio and eat his face.

“Wow, the big finish!”, Ánibal laughs. “Wait, wasn’t she supposed to wait until _he_ kissed her?”

Sergio wasn’t going to, Martín is sure of it. But it seems Raquel chose to improvise, and for that, she’s a fucking pro. 

When the kiss turns into something closer to a makeout session, Martín suddenly remembers the plan. He grabs his phone, finds Raquel’s number, and puts her out of her misery.

Martín and Ánibal both watch as she painstakingly frees herself from Sergio’s embrace and picks up the call.

“Okay Penelope Cruz, we got the money shot, you’re good to go!”, Martín says, almost giddy. “Just fake an emergency, say it’s that it’s the babysitter, that the house is on fire or whatever...”

Even though she can’t actually see him, lurking in the shadows all the way across the street, Raquel looks straight in Martín’s direction when she replies.

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, you must have the wrong number.”

“Raquel, I was _joking!_ You don’t have to do anything with him, you’re good–”

She hangs up on him, grabs Sergio’s hand, and invites him inside for the night. Martín assumes, for a glass of sparkling water and a game of Monopoly.

“I mean, that’s one way to do it.”

Martín still messages Raquel on his way home.

* * *

**Unread texts from MARTÍN BERROTE (6)**

> **(23:49)** _spreading your legs was not necessary_  
>  **(23:49)** _that being said, we thank you for your sacrifice_  
>  **(23:52)** _I guess, text me when he leaves your place tomorrow morning?_  
>  **(23:52)** _we’ll come back for the walk of shame pictures_  
>  **(23:53)** _enjoy your bland heterosexual intercourse_  
>  **(23:55)** _and, you know, use protection or whatever_

* * *

The challenge with blackmail is not finding evidence. Blackmail fodder comes a dime a dozen these days. With the right people? Very easy to find. 

No, the real subtlety with blackmail is knowing who to address it to. 

With the photographs Martín now has in his possession, the obvious choice here would be _not_ to blackmail. Just send them to the judge anonymously. Pray that he connects the dots all by himself. 

But the judge appointed for the Vicuña-Murillo divorce happens to be Alfonso Prieto. 

Would it have been Sierra, Martín would have sent the photos, no hesitation. She’s a bitch, and she _does not like him._ At all. But she’s sharp, he’ll give her that. And she’s not a fan of Fonollosa either. She would have torn him to _pieces._

God, Martín’s body tingles just remembering the look on his face, the last time Sierra put him back into his place. How he pinched his lips just so, in defeat, in humiliation. How he glared daggers at Martín, his eyes ablaze. How the frown lines twisted his face, so beautiful, so vibrant. 

Martín wants to see that again.

Unfortunately, it’s not an option. Because Alicia Sierra is _not_ on the case, and Prieto is a bit thick. 

So, back to square one. The pictures. Who to contact? 

Vicuña, perhaps. 

_Did you know your lawyer was your ex-wife’s brother-in-law? Are you sure he’s working in your best interests?_

That could work, but it’s far-fetched. And Martín would rather avoid involving that guy in any way. Or letting him know Raquel is getting it on. That might backfire.

Fonollosa, then. 

Martín has never emailed him directly, but of course, he could. That would be easy. Because yes, he has Fonollosa’s email address saved somewhere. Just in case. 

He opens his laptop and starts typing. Enthusiastically. 

In the subject box, he writes _‘NEWSFLASH: YOUR BROTHER IS A WHORE’_

That’s gotta catch his attention. 

Should he open with an insult? Stick to what he knows?

Or perhaps a standard polite greeting to keep him on his toes?

He should mention for sure that the scandal would impact Sergio negatively. Threats might not work on Fonollosa, but Martín could swear his baby brother is the way to his heart.

Assuming Fonollosa does have one. A heart. 

Once again, far-fetched.

The more Martín writes, the more he erases. 

How does one write an email to Señor de Fonollosa?

This doesn’t feel right. 

And there’s something else. Something that Martín knows. He shouldn’t let it bug him, but it’s on his mind. He hates that he cares about this. 

Martín actually _likes_ Marquina. 

Not a lot, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But they get along. Professionally. Martín doesn’t wish him ill. 

And Marquina is the one who would get backlash from what Martín is fomenting right now. 

The thing is… Sergio Marquina isn’t actually a divorce lawyer. He works as one, at the moment. But that’s not his vocation. That’s why the law practice doesn’t bear his name. _‘Fonollosa & Associates’. _ That’s Marquina: he’s the one _‘associate’._ There’s no one else at that practice.

Martín once asked Sergio. _Why not ‘Fonollosa & Marquina’? _Sure, Fonollosa is an arrogant dickhead to anyone else, but his own brother deserves that respect, doesn’t he? 

Except Marquina doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want his name to be associated with the practice because he’s not planning to stay. He told Martín of his aspirations to leave Family Law behind in favor of Criminal Justice. 

And Martín can absolutely see that for him. Marquina is a hard worker, thorough. It’s cute how much he cares about the big, confusing concepts like _ethics_ and _justice._ And he has a certain moral compass – slightly skewed, at times, but that’s what Martín likes about him – so, to picture Marquina switching to _The Other Side?_ Working at the courthouse? He would fit right in. He would thrive. 

He’s just lending a hand at _Fonollosa & Associates _for now, waiting for the right nomination. A judge, a magistrate. A prosecutor. 

A _public_ servant.

A dream that will shatter to pieces if Martín drags his name through the mud with any sort of scandal. The State hires no one but the irreprochable. A clean file, a spotless track record. What Martín needs to do will ruin that for him.

Shit. 

Martín doesn’t care about this guy’s career. Or at least, he shouldn’t care.

But he also saw the dumb look on Raquel’s face when she talked about her time with Marquina. When she went on that date with him. A great actress, sure. Not _that_ great. 

Fine. Fine! Let’s do this. 

He sighs and erases Fonollosa’s email address from the draft. 

This is weird, and probably a bad idea, but Martín tries, for once, to do the right thing. 

Or at least, to do the least shitty thing, from the various options he’s given. 

He types in the correct message, addresses it to the correct person. 

Martín is no longer giddy about what he’s doing. He was much more comfortable with open hostility. His words feel too harsh and too kind at the same time. 

That’s not how Martín likes to conduct his business. 

This calculated, manipulative shit? That’s Fonollosa’s trademark. 

What does that say about Martín then?

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
**TO:** Sergio Marquina  
<sergio.marquina@fonollosa-associates.com>  
**SUBJECT:** I swear it’s not what it looks like  
  
**ATTACHMENT(S):** [15 files]  
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> Okay.  
>  Let me start this by saying I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS.  
>    
>  I'm backed against a wall here. And it’s not anything against you, personally. Just so you know.  
>    
>  As you already know, your lady friend Raquel is getting a divorce.  
>  As you may not know, her abusive ex asked for full custody of the kid, and he just might get it.  
>  Take a wild fucking guess as to WHO is the divorce attorney of that piece of shit...  
>  See?? I’m being the good guy here!!  
>    
>  Now, I know we’re not exactly friends, but believe me when I say this is a friendly warning.  
>    
>  You’re going to get your brother to drop Alberto Vicuña.  
>    
>  If someone can convince him, it’s you.  
>  I’d hate to have to use the pictures I have, or to spread the story that goes with them. (I haven’t picked which story yet, but be assured it won't be flattering). Which would suck big time for you, wouldn’t it? Especially if you’re still planning to switch branches. A scandal wouldn’t look very good on your file…  
>    
>  But, as I said, I’d hate to do that.   
>  Don’t make me do that, Sergio.  
>  Get Fonollosa out of my way.  
>    
>  Thanks,  
>    
>  Berrote.  
>    
>    
>    
>  P.S: What the fuck is going on with the Pérez divorce? Did you also get that weird email from Ernesto saying that they fucked again last week and they're back together now??? Because let me tell you, on my side, Catalina is still very much divorcing his ass. Final conciliation meeting on Thursday. Please don’t make it weird. 

* * *

Raquel isn't picking up, so Martín had no other choice but to leave the office early and drive to her house. 

This is urgent.

Well, it isn't. But Martín should be the one to tell her. 

It's Raquel's mom who lets him, so Martín takes a seat at the dining room table and waits for her to grace him with her presence.

“Hi, sorry I was– Martín? What are you doing here?”

She’s wearing a dress, and she’s done something with her hair that Martín doesn’t care to know the name of, but it looks– nice? She looks nice. Divorce suits her.

“When Mamá said there was a strange man at the door, you hoped for a different one, didn’t you?”, he teases. “One with glasses, perhaps. A beard?”

She rolls her eyes, but does take a seat next to him at her own dinner table.

 _“Inspectora_ ”, Martín starts, channeling a bit more seriousness into that conversation. “I have two pieces of news for you. A good one and a bad one.”

Raquel visibly tenses next to him, and he almost feels guilty for playing with her like that. Almost. Delivering important information is an art. Martín won’t apologize for giving this moment the gravitas it deserves.

“The bad news is that Fonollosa will stay on the case until the end of the divorce proceeding. Or until someone finally murders him. Whatever comes first.”

Raquel shakes her head and looks at him like he’s an idiot. The nerve of that woman.

“You came all the way here to tell me what I already knew?”

 _“The good news”,_ he continues, slowly but surely breaking into a grin, “is that Alberto will have to pick a different attorney for his _trial.”_

“What do you mean, his trial?”

Martín hands her the thick stack of papers he brought with him.

“This was sent to the courthouse three hours ago.”

Raquel starts reading, and gasps loudly before raising a hand to her mouth, her eyes impossibly wide. Finally, some fucking appreciation!

“It's all there”, she whispers, her breath hitching as she frantically flips through the pages. “It's all– It's _all there…”_

It sure is.

All of it. 

The incident reports and the police photos of the bruises and the transcriptions of phone calls. The security camera footage of Raquel Murillo entering various precincts in the city. Even the names of the cops to put on the stand. Those who took the reports. Those who erased them from the records. 

“How did you–”

Raquel gulps and doesn’t finish her question. Her eyes are misty, but she’s beaming.

And so is Martín. 

Yep, the trip was worth it. That moment would _not_ have brought him this much vindication if he’d broken the news to her _on the phone._ Gross. Martín deserves that win.

“I have a contact at the courthouse who tipped me off when they received the email”, Martín explains, waving his hands around enthusiastically. 

Julia is adamant: that evidence is more than solid enough to open an investigation. She works in archives, she knows the statistics. And she assured Martín that Vicuña _will_ be tried for domestic abuse. 

“Now, don’t get your hopes up”, Martín adds. “He’ll get a good defense attorney, just like he got a good divorce lawyer. He probably won’t even get a prison sentence, but–”

“But they’ll believe me now”, she sobs. “In the divorce. They’ll take it into account?”

“Full custody for sure. And then some...”

She jumps into his arms, and Martín doesn’t even complain before he hugs her back.

The divorce will have to wait for a few months though. After the trial. But Martín isn’t worried. Not only will Raquel get full custody of her kid, Martín will get her much more than that. He doesn’t tell her just yet – now is not the time for promises – but the divorce settlement he will get her? The money and the house and the cars. A shitload of material possessions, a good chunk of the savings accounts. And that’s not even counting the alimony. For Paula _and_ for Raquel. 

Simply put, Martín is going to _bleed him dry._ Vicuña will be taking his new bride to the local bed-and-breakfast for their honeymoon. If that’s even in his budget... 

Finally. _Finally,_ Martín is going to beat Fonollosa fair and square. In the courtroom. Or at a conciliation meeting, if they settle of of court, but that would be fucking anticlimactic, wouldn’t it? 

Either way, Martín has already won. 

Better yet, he’ll watch Fonollosa lose. 

He’ll put him _on his knees._

Not that it’s about that. Not that it’s about _him._

It’s about Raquel. Of course. The satisfaction of a case he handled well. Nothing more.

“Who sent the documents?”, Raquel eventually asks.

That’s a quiz Martín studied for.

“They used foreign servers all over the world”, he replies. “Apparently, your guardian angel wants to stay anonymous. The email is untraceable.”

She smiles.

“Did you trace it?”

“Of course I traced it.”

Well, Ánibal traced it. But only because Martín thought to ask him to. The kid might be a genius, but this was very much a team effort.

“You’ll never fucking guess where the evidence was sent from...” He hands Raquel the address Ánibal gave him. “Right here in Madrid, _Cuatro Torres Business Area,_ but look at the address! Now, did you, by any chance, recently show the time of his life to someone who might be very grateful? Someone who happens to work in that particular office building?”

She blinks.

“You don’t think it means–”

“It means I was right!”, Martín gloats. “In the end, it all worked out because you listened to me and worked your charms on Marquina, just like I told you.”

Raquel raises an eyebrow at that. 

If that’s not enough evidence for her, he’s going to forward her the blackmail pictures. Because they might’ve been useless, but they turned out _great._ Marquina’s lovestruck little face really catches the light _just right._

“I don’t even want to know how you did it”, Martín says. “But whatever you did to Sergio, you really turned his head. He just stabbed his own brother in the back to make that happen for you. That’s a plot twist of telenovela proportions. The intrigue, the _betrayal.”_

“This is a divorce, not a telenovela.”

“It can be both”, he insists. “Trust me, Inspectora. It’s time to believe in divorces with happy endings.”

* * *

**FROM:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
**TO:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
**SUBJECT:** Well played

> Berrote,  
>    
>  I’ve looked over the latest proposal you sent to my office. You really have no shame, do you? That divorce settlement will leave my client with virtually nothing.  
>    
>  But with the insolent luck of the situation you find yourself in, and taking into account Vicuña’s recent conviction, your offer appears slightly more generous than what he would get if this went to the judge.  
>    
>  Your draft is decent enough. We won’t be requesting amendments.  
>    
>  Send in the final version, I will get my client to sign.  
>    
>  Regards.  
>    
>  Andrés de Fonollosa  
>  Fonollosa & Associates – Attorneys at Law  
>    
>    
>    
>  P.S: Don’t let this go to your head.


	3. Payback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A lot of planning had gone into this. Fonollosa had many unforgivable flaws, but he paid attention to the details. Martín had to admit, his timing was impeccable._

“Just you wait ‘til my lawyer gets here”, Martín shouts when he finally hears footsteps coming his way. “Well, that is, if you ever let me make that phone call _I am legally entitled to.”_

Suarez stops in front of his cell.

“Will you shut up already? I’m sure they can hear you up on the fifth floor.”

Well, genius, that was kind of the goal. Why else would have Martín been hollering, if not with the explicit intention to be heard. How long exactly do these cops go to school? Not nearly enough, that’s for sure.

“This is a gross miscarriage of justice”, Martín repeats, for what feels like the seventy-fourth time tonight. “I didn’t do anything. I’ll walk out in an hour. Two hours, tops.”

The officer glares at him through the bars. Martín’s confidence really seems to rub him up the wrong way.

“You think I haven’t heard that one before? That’s what they all say, the big shots like you, when they get caught. It doesn’t matter if it’s drugs or embezzlement or women. We always pin you down for something. Your degrees and your fancy suit don’t make you above the law.”

Martín barks out a laugh as he watches the cop walk away. He’s quite flattered to have been mistaken for a big shot lawyer. And Suarez just called his suit _fancy,_ when Fonollosa once referred to that exact same outfit as _offensively cheap, and did you really think that tie was the right call to match with a charcoal blazer, Berrote?_

However Martín Berrote thought this day would end, it never crossed his mind that he would be sitting behind bars, his wrists aching aching from the wrong kind of handcuffs, trying to find anyone in this goddamn precinct with even vague knowledge of proper procedure.

After another eternity of uncorrected judicial error – probably twenty minutes or so – Martín manages to lure in one of the most junior deputies. _B. Antoñanzas,_ his uniform says. 

“The more you scream, the more they’ll make you wait”, he says, sounding somewhat apologetic. 

One look at him and Martín knows he found the weakest link.

“I just need a phone”, he pleads. “Give me a phone and I’ll shut up. I’ll be out of here before you know it. You won’t let an innocent man spend the night in jail, will you, Antoñanzas?”

He clings to the bars of his prison cell like the sweetest of labrador puppies, conveying with his huge, sad eyes that he knows the animal shelter is nothing more than a corridor of death, he saw what they did to Rex with that needle, he knows he’s next, and this life is unfair to the small, helpless creatures of this world. This acting choice is quite a reach, Martín is well aware of that. And yet, his calculations were right, because, not two minutes later, Antoñanzas returns with Martín’s cellphone in a clear plastic bag and slips it to him between the bars. 

_“My hero!”_

Martín beams at him, like Deputy B. Antoñanzas is the light of his life. And right now, he kind of is.

“Don’t be too long. I could get in trouble for that.”

“The Inspectora and I are _tight”,_ he boasts as he looks for her number, “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you.”

After Raquel promises to take care of it, Martín texts Ágata a brief summary of his unfortunate evening, and demands that she picks him up from the precinct where he’s being _detained._

To her credit, Ágata texts him back instantly.

Her reply, as expected, is tactful and compassionate, brimming with empathy.

> **(02:15)** 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

After a minute or two, she deems Martín worthy of a worded answer.

> **(02:17)** _on my way_  
>  **(02:18)** _don’t go anywhere lol_

Harsh, but helpful. 

Maybe the cruel, needle-happy veterinarians won’t be putting Fido to sleep tonight, after all.

“Murillo should give you guys a call. Please, make sure Suarez picks it up. I want _him_ to get yelled at.”

He hands his phone back to Antoñanzas. And he waits.

The cell could be a bit bigger and a lot cleaner, and Martín is exhausted from running in circles in the crowded space, but he’d rather stay on his feet that risk sitting on that suspicious bench by the wall. 

At least he’s alone. Free from the unsavory company that could have found him here, on any other night. Just Martín and his thoughts. 

This could be the perfect occasion for some self reflection. Remorse, perhaps. Except Martín has done nothing to deserve this.

If anything, he didn’t do _enough._ And after tonight? He’s gonna need to up his game. Big time.

* * *

It escalated so quickly, and none of it was Martín's fault.

It started with a careless comment. 

“One of these days, I won’t have to see your face all the fucking time. Try not to miss me too much, Fonollosa. I sure won’t miss you.”

Okay, maybe Martín made _one_ mistake. 

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy amount of bragging, especially when the job offer he’d gotten was so prestigious, so well-deserved. Head of the divorce department at a renowned law practice in Barcelona. _Head of department._ Not that he’d shared any of the details with Fonollosa. 

But apparently, he’d been just evasive enough that the bastard had looked into it.

Martín had already shortlisted a few apartments in Barcelona. And even a _house._ With the substantial increase in salary that came with a position, that was also an option. And he was never the type of people that makes vision boards, but he did draft a spreadsheet, and that’s as serious as it gets. Just a simple table to sort out the things he’d pack, what he would take with him, what he’d need to buy there after the big move, the books and the furniture he’d have to donate. 

Martín was enthusiastically browsing a website called _‘The thirteen best gay bars in Barcelona’_ when the email came. He opened it and his heart dropped.

 _‘We are truly sorry to inform you that your offer of employment has been withdrawn’,_ said the condescending message. _‘Please ignore the contracts you have been sent. In light of new information, we have found someone more suited to fill a position at our reputable practice.’_

Martín’s gut reaction was to go _‘oh, they’re homophobic’,_ and swallow his disappointment. 

Of course it had been too good to be true. Too good for _him,_ anyway. He couldn't allow himself to be saddened by this. He should just move on. Immediately.

But something sounded off. The fact that they specified _‘our reputable practice’,_ for one, was pretty unusual. As though Martín was scum on the back of their shoe. As though his mere presence in the building would taint them. 

They hadn't even dignified him with a good old _‘we wish you the best in your future employment endeavors.’_

No matter how fake and patronizing, that would have been the usage, wouldn’t it? Didn’t Martín _deserve_ the best in his future employment endeavours? Didn’t they at least wish him that, after the five – _fucking five!_ – interviews he’d had with the practice, how thrilled they’d sounded to steal someone of Martín’s caliber from _Madrid Legal?_

What changed?

After a few mildly aggressive emails back and forth, Martín found out. 

And he saw red. 

As it turned out, _‘in light of new information’_ meant _‘one of your colleagues in Madrid kindly informed us of the many public orgies you routinely take part in, as well as your prolonged involvement in the BDSM scene, and that is not the image we wish to convey, once again, at our reputable, family-owned practice.’_

“Fuck me!”

Nothing. Martín was left with nothing.

Fonollosa’s little fiction was brilliant – it was devastating – because, even though it was and remained a lie, it was close enough to the truth to be perfectly credible. Nearly impossible for Martín to refute. What could he even say to make them believe otherwise? 

_‘I don’t do orgies anymore, my last attempt at group sex was in college.’_

_‘I’ll have you know I haven’t been to a sex club in years.’_

_‘I’m not a perv, all my kinks remain private.’_

Just in case, Martín still told all of those things to the Barcelona head of recruitment. That last email forever remained unanswered. 

Martín was too stunned for the disappointment to settle in just yet. That job should have been the opportunity of his career, yes. 

But what he didn’t understand was _why._

Why didn’t Fonollosa accept it like a gift, a blessing? At last, Martín would have gotten out of his way. He would have left him alone. 

He would have left. 

For good. 

It could have been great, for them both. 

Free from each other. 

Sure, there may be some logic in ruining it for Martín. In making sure no good thing happens to him, ever. 

But this time there was no reason, no reason at all to–

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
**TO:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
**SUBJECT:** I know it was you

> Why?

* * *

Martín grabbed the contract he’d already signed and tossed it the trash. 

He took a deep breath, poured himself a drink.

Soon enough, confusion gave way to sadness. Just a pinch of hurt, a hint of sorrow. And then he dove back into anger. His default setting when Fonollosa was concerned, it seemed. Burning, white hot rage, the one that blurred Martín’s vision and made his hands shake. 

He needed revenge way more than he craved the answers he would never get.

It didn't take long to settle on his next move. 

It wasn’t his most clever nor his most refined idea, but it was so fucking satisfying for Martín to tell any lawyer and judge who would listen that Fonollosa had caught a nasty case of chlamydia, _oh, haven’t you heard? It’s the talk of the courthouse these days. I’m sure you saw him fiddling with his robes, didn’t you? Must be quite itchy in there. Chla-my-dia, I tell you. It’s a shame, I know. Such a fine specimen… Well, the prettiest mushrooms are the most poisonous ones, aren’t they?_

Martín could spend hours staring at the horrified faces of his colleagues and peers as he _informed_ them of this burning piece of gossip he carefully crafted. 

“Don’t let the polished exterior fool you, he’s riddled with diseases. He caught gonorrhea twice last year alone. And who knows what hasn’t been diagnosed yet…”

The best part? Everyone bought it. Without a second thought. Without hesitation. 

Sometimes, Martín’s unlucky interlocutor would even express something resembling pity. They’d watch the distinguished Señor de Fonollosa from afar, squinting and pinching their lips, somewhat wistfully. 

Fonollosa is _that_ charismatic. Even when they believed him to be a biological hazard, they still thought he was charming, that he was a great guy, that he didn’t deserve any of this.

“Oh, no, he had it coming. That’s what you get for sticking your dick inside everything with a nice cleavage and pretty legs that walks into your office. Along the way, you catch something. It’s karma. Or basic biology.”

The hilarious rumor about his allegedly toxic genitalia had to reach Fonollosa at some point. And he immediately identified who had started it. Of course he knew. 

Because what was it, if not retaliation, when an unidentified gentleman hired a hooker in Martín’s name and sent her to his office? 

Yes, perhaps the most offensive of all, a _female_ one. 

The _lady of the night,_ as Fonollosa would refer to her, had shown up at Martín’s work in the middle of the day, and with the full getup – the face paint, the belt-sized miniskirt, the fucking fishnets – so that every single employee of _Madrid Legal_ with a pair of eyes would immediately identify her profession. And of course, Ágata was conveniently attending a meeting outside when it happened, causing Martín to find himself alone in the office at the time. Helpless and vulnerable. No witnesses. 

A lot of planning had gone into this. Fonollosa had many unforgivable flaws, but he paid attention to the details. Martín had to admit, his timing was impeccable. 

He’d tipped off the Madrid Police Department just early enough that the Vice Squad stormed into Martín’s office barely a minute after Martín’s uninvited guest had let herself in. Before Martín could throw her out. Before he could even _react._

Details, timining, and a sense for the dramatic, that’s for sure. 

The boys in blue didn’t seem impressed with Martín’s explanations. 

“This is a setup!”, he shouted, trying and failing to stop the half naked woman from sitting on his lap. 

He'd been extremely focused on grabbing her arms – and _only_ her arms – to push her away. 

One of the cops thankfully stepped in to escort the prostitute out of the office. Another one walked up to the desk, waving handcuffs around. 

“That won’t be necessary”, Martín started, “see, what happened is–”

“Save the story for the precinct, buddy. And try to make it a good one, okay? I've heard them all, it gets boring after a while. I get it, you're being framed and you can tell us who did it. Or you're a good Christian who'd never touch a woman out of wedlock. Or she's your niece visiting for spring break–”

“I'm gay!”

This did make him pause for a second. Before he laughed in Martín’s face.

“I'll give it to you, I don’t think anyone’s tried that one before.”

Martín slumped back into his chair, sighing in frustration at the amount of paperwork he’d have to do because of this.

That was, until it was brought to his attention that he’d have to deal with a little more than paperwork.

“Señor Berrote, you're under arrest.”

Martín snickered. _Yeah, right._

They arrested him.

* * *

When she finally shows up, fashionably late, the first thing Ágata does is laugh. 

Martín hears it before he even spots her familiar figure on the other side of the bullpen. She’s holding his file – she’s holding her sides – and her roaring laughter echoes across the precinct. 

But because she’s a great lawyer, as soon as she’s done with that, she gets Suarez to open the cage and give Martín his things back. He does feel a semblance of dignity as he puts his belt and his shoelaces back on, thank you very much. 

“Do you even know what time it is, Berrote? I came very close to letting you rot here all night.”

It’s nearly three in the morning and Martín knows she’s not just joking. 

If he’s perfectly honest, he might not have gotten out of bed for her either.

No, he would have. But he’d have bitched about it.

He lets out a hiss of pain as he tries to put on his watch, and Ágata plucks it from his hand and fastens it for him. She grabs his arm almost delicately and traces a finger across the ugly red mark digging into the skin of his wrist. Not bloody, but swollen and tender.

“They roughed you up, uh?”

When any decent friend would have asked _‘My dear, innocent Martín, what did these bastards do to you?’,_ with a trembling voice and concern in their eyes, Ágata simply rolls her eyes at him. 

“You had to open your fucking mouth, didn’t you?”

“Wha– I barely said anything!”

Each and every word he said was perfectly justified in Martín’s extremely unfair situation.

 _“Come on officer, don’t I look gay enough to you?”,_ he whined when they arrested him. _“If I had to fuck anyone in this room, it certainly wouldn’t be her. It might even be you. Actually, it would be your colleague with the broad shoulders. Suarez, is it? You look like a man who can hold a guy down when he plows him.”_

Suarez, who had previously offered to lead Martín outside without a fuss, had changed his mind after that, and elected to bend him over his own desk and twist his arms behind his back. 

_“Oh. Oh! No need to get kinky, I’ll come willingly.”_

Martín did clear his throat to hide a pained little grunt. Manhandling someone properly was quite a craft, and it seemed the police hadn’t been taught the right way to do it. Before he could point that out, cold metal was kissing the sensitive skin of his wrists.

_“Handcuffs, really? Watch out, Officer, I just might like it.”_

Suarez cuffed him extra tight, and in spite of his playful remark, Martín did not like it that much to have his blood flow restrained.

But now that he’s out of the waters, he doesn’t share any of that with Ágata.

Instead, he asks how she’s getting his charges dropped. She pulls out a photo album, and he knows which one it is before she even opens it.

That’s the best and the worst part about tonight. The key to Martín’s freedom is to prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would never touch a woman. Let alone, pay for one. 

Bringing forth overwhelming evidence of his gayness appears crucial.

“I can’t believe it paid off to take you to pride.”

“You didn’t take _me_ to pride”, Ágata points out. “Mirko and I _dragged you._ And you’re welcome.”

Martín browses through the pictures. Through the _evidence._ Yes, it is crushing evidence. Overwhelming. 

He isn’t particularly happy to know that old pictures of himself – _shirtless_ pictures of himself – in roller skates and a rainbow cape will permanently be archived in a police file with his name on it. The price of freedom is steep, these days. There are also quite a lot of pictures of Martín making out with his then boyfriends. Boyfriends, plural. All of them, as scantily clad and rainbow adorned.

Let them try to call Martín Berrote straight after that.

* * *

Martín paces back and forth in his tiny office, the towering piles of files along the walls making it seem like the room is caving in on itself. About to swallow him any second. Which is why he keeps walking in circles. Very small circles. There isn’t room for big circles of despair in here. Only quiet circles of mild gloom. 

His head is pounding. So much work left to do, and yet he’s so fucking _bored._

Ágata groans again.

“Stop moving so much, you’re distracting me.”

“Stop being so still, you’re freaking me out”, he bites back. 

Small as it is, only half of the room is technically _his_ office. He shares it with Ágata. 

That’s what you get when you’re just another attorney lost inside the big law firm. There is a partition between their desks, at least. Not a wall, though. Walls are expensive. 

He should be in Barcelona right now. Alone in a huge office with a shiny new plaque by the door. Shouting at junior associates and being delivered fresh pastries by terrified interns. 

Living his best life.

“Ánibal should be back already”, he observes.

“You know you can’t keep sending him on coffee runs like that. He’s not your personal assistant.”

Martín laughs, too loud and too bitter. 

Yeah… He’s never getting a P.A. Not with his department’s budget. 

Martín can dare to dream, though. And if he ever did get a P.A., he’d definitely pick Ánibal. The kid is efficient. He’s _resourceful._ And very discreet, whenever Martín requests his help with something on the down low. All in the interest of the client, of course.

He’s sure Fonollosa has a P.A. He probably has a whole gaggle of them. To boss around. To traumatize. 

And he’s pretty sure a personal assistant to Andrés de Fonollosa has a bigger office than he does.

God, he hates _Madrid Legal._ So much. 

And there’s the Fonollosa problem that needs to be addressed. 

He won’t soon forget his little sleepover at the precinct. That was a bold move, creative, inspired, and Martín obviously cannot leave that one unpunished. But he refuses to strike back until he finds the perfect retaliation. He has to hit him hard; a prostitute in his office, a stint in custody, the humiliating ordeal of proving what a raging homosexual he actually is.

Payback is a fine art, and Martín cannot settle for the usual petty revenge. All the ideas he’s been considering so far sound uninspired to him. 

He won’t spread rumors of yet another sexually transmitted disease, no matter how tempting that one is. For the sake of symmetry, he could send Fonollosa a _male_ hooker during work hours. 

Or a strip teaser. 

In the middle of the courtroom.

Maybe his best bet would be to plant drugs in his briefcase and call the narcs on him. A squad with angry police dogs. It would be fun to watch Fonollosa run, wouldn’t it? 

Wait. Why _plant_ the drugs when he might as well give them to him? Martín should be able to slip ecstasy into his coffee, or GHB into his sandwich, or acid into a refined pastry he’d send to his office _‘from a grateful client’._

Okay, that one he’ll keep in mind for a later date. Martín would pay good money to witness Fonollosa speak publicly while seeing sounds and tasting colors and having to deal with unicorns and dragons manifesting in his field of vision. That’s– yes, that’s a good one. 

But not the _right one_. 

Junkie-Gate is too delicate of a protocole. He’ll have to refine it for months, to save it for a special occasion. Right before a very important hearing, or perhaps his annual masterclass at the Institute.

Which leaves him with exactly zero alternatives as to how to _make Fonollosa pay_ for the most recent offense Martín is still fuming about.

In the meantime, the wise thing would be not to force it. To distract himself with work, waiting for genius to strike. Except Martín doesn’t have new cases right now. 

Well, there’s a pile of them on his desk. But there is no _good_ case. Nothing scandalous. Nothing challenging. 

Nothing remotely close to catching his attention long enough that he’d stop thinking about Fonollosa, and how he smiles in victory, and how much he deserves to suffer. 

Martín barely flipped through the Gómez file before dropping it on top of _The Boring Pile_ with all the others. The spouses get along and there’s no drama for him to stir. No, thank you.

Ágata makes another noise and starts fiddling with her hair in frustration. 

All of Martín’s senses are on high alert. She’s working on _that_ case, isn’t she?

Like the hound that he is, picking up a scent, Martín prowls towards Ágata’s desk. 

“Still your pervy client, right?”, he asks nonchalantly. “The baby daddy? What was it, six kids?”

“Seven. From four different women.”

Martín shudders. _Seven kids._ Disgusting.

“Straight people, I swear...” 

Ágata lets out a deep sigh and drops her head on her arms, folded over her desk.

“I hate that guy”, she mutters. “He keeps hitting on me.”

There it is. The opportunity.

“Well, I guess– I don’t know, I guess I _could_ take over the case… if you want”, Martín kindly offers, as though the idea only occurred to him now. “I won’t mind if he grabs my ass. Actually, it’s been a while since anyone tried...”

Ágata shakes her head, crushing Martín’s excitement over possibly getting one good case. One. Just one. 

“No, it’s alright”, she says, fiddling with her papers again. “I’m not giving up now, this is the coolest, most creative custody agreement I’ve ever come up with. And he didn’t actually grab my ass. He’s just annoying. You _know_ I would have punched him if he’d tried anything…”

Of course, she would have. 

Happy memories flash before Martín’s eyes. The delicious, bone-cracking sound he heard when Ágata’s fist connected with César Gandía nose. Unparalleled.

If Martín remembers correctly, she didn’t even take off any of her rings.

“I’ll grant you that, you can throw a good punch... _for a woman.”_

He ducks just in time to avoid the stapler Ágata threw at his head.

“Violence in the office!”, Martín mocks, biting back a grin. “I should tell HR about this.”

When Ágata doesn’t look like she’s gonna throw anything else at him, he walks up to her desk again.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to hand over the Baby Daddy File? Or another case? Anything?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Ay ay ay, how greedy can you get? I just gave you a really good one.”

“Uh? Which one?”

“The one you just put on top of the boring pile.”

She knows him well. 

“What, Gómez? But it _is_ boring.”

There’s something in the way Ágata smirks at him.

“Trust me, _corazón._ You want this case.”

He rushes back towards his own desk and reopens The Boring File on top of The Boring Pile.

This divorce is mostly settled between the spouses already. Martín is just there for a signature and a paycheck. 

Worse, it’s _amicable._ Ugh. 

He should go for those easy divorces. But it’s dreadful, really. He hates it when the clients get along with their ex. No hostility, no backstabbing? Not even a bit of thirst for revenge? 

Where’s the fun in that? 

There’s no prenuptial agreement, though, which could have made his job at least a _little_ exciting. But of course, the spouses have chosen to be reasonable and already agree on most terms of the divorce. 

Just a few meetings needed before the settlement. 

Martín doesn’t see what Ágata thought he would like about this case, but he might as well set up an appointment with this Señorita–

His heart misses a beat.

_“¡Santa María madre de dios!”_

“You’re fucking welcome, Berrote.”

Martín blows Ágata a kiss before returning his attention to the file. 

To the gift he was given.

_‘Tatiana Gómez de Fonollosa.’_

With a finger, he traces over the name. Almost caresses the paper.

He hears himself _giggle._

“Just tell me if you don’t want that client”, Ágata teases, “I’ll happily take her off your hands.”

“Back the fuck off, I’d kill to work that case.”

His head is buzzing and his ears are ringing. It smells like candy and wine and holidays, and is there festive music playing nearby? This is Christmas and New Year’s and Martín’s birthday all at once. 

And to think he put _that_ on the boring pile.

Martín starts flipping through the pages like a child rummaging inside a toy chest. 

He finds a post-it note stuck to the back of the folder.

_‘The client specifically requested to be represented by Señor Berrote.’_

The sound of Martín’s laughter fills the tiny office. Until Ágata loses patience and throws an eraser at him. 

He doesn’t care. Today is a great day. The first of many.

* * *

Tatiana de Fonollosa is a very busy woman. 

Which is how Martín ends up waiting for her in a restaurant, of all places. Nothing like Fonollosa’s bullshit _‘work lunches’,_ though. A simple, quaint little restaurant in front of the _Teatro Real,_ where she seems to be rehearsing at all hours. 

It was that, or waiting over a week for her to show up at his office. Which was unacceptable. This case is Martín’s top priority. 

Fonollosa’s _wife._

God, that woman must have suffered. In a way, he’s rescuing her. 

Martín didn’t even know he was married. How did he not know he was married? He should have known. 

Well, Martín knew Fonollosa _had been_ married. And divorced. Four times. Soon to be five. Oh, this is _so good._

They must have been separated for a little while, then. Fonollosa was not wearing a ring the last few times he saw him. 

Or was he? 

No. 

Martín would have noticed. 

The bell at the restaurant’s door rings, and Martín looks up to see a pretty redhead in a flowy dress walking up to his table. 

He stands up and offers his hand.

“Señor Berrote?”, she greets him, with a polite smile and a surprisingly firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”

They both take a seat at the table and Martín beams at her.

“Trust me, Señora, the pleasure is all mine”, he drawls. “And given the circumstances, you just might be my new best friend. Call me Martín.”

She chuckles.

“Call me Tatiana, then.”

She looks and sounds awfully normal for someone who would willingly associate themselves with the devil incarnate. 

A waiter drops by their table and they order.

Martín takes a deep breath and hopes he isn’t squirming in his chair too much. The excitement, the anticipation, are getting to his nerves. This could be the perfect revenge he prayed for, and never has such a golden opportunity arisen. Embarrassing stories to hear. Blackmail material to collect. 

He needs to pace himself. 

“Tatiana, there are a lot of details we need to discuss but first I have to ask... What made you hire me?”

She sighs, fiddling with her napkin distractedly.

“You do have a really good reputation”, she starts, almost as an apology. “But you probably gathered that’s not why I chose you. The day I decided to file for divorce, I wasn’t– I was a little worked up. Andrés and I had just had… _words,_ and it wasn’t pretty. My husband can be quite cruel, at times. I wanted to hurt him back, and– well, I remembered how he used to complain about this one lawyer that always got in his way.” 

Something tightens in Martín’s chest. A warm, confusing feeling. He stares at her in shock, so sure he’s misinterpreting her words, because there’s no way–

“Wait, wait, wait! You picked me to get back at him?”

Tatiana smiles, her gaze intense, _piercing,_ in a way that reminds Martín of someone else.

“Well, of course. You were my first choice, Martín Berrote.”

 _Pride._

That’s what this is. 

Martín is proud to have been worthy of that privilege. 

That _he_ gets to hurt Andrés de Fonollosa. Or at least, that Tatiana thinks he could. 

_Hurt_ is a big word, though; he knows he’ll _annoy_ him for sure. And that’s more than enough. 

This shouldn’t be so satisfying, so meaningful. But all Martín can focus on is the admission underneath. The story between the lines.

Fonollosa has been talking about him. 

To his wife.

How can one insignificant little attorney from _Madrid Legal_ be so important to Fonollosa? To the point that he warrants being bad-mouthed even outside of work hours?

_‘Querida, I’ve had the worst day today! You won’t believe what Berrote did this time…’_

No. That doesn’t sound like him at all. 

But Martín pictures it all the same. 

Fonollosa, coming home after a long day at the courthouse. A frown of frustration distorting his elegant features. He’d sigh deeply as he’d take off his hat, unlace his shoes, the memory of Martín’s clever words weighing heavy on his shoulders. Maybe he’d even pout like the cranky child that he is. And at last, he’d slowly unbutton his coat, drained and bitter, and start rambling on and on about what Martín said that day, how he acted, and why it annoyed him _so much._

It’s insane. 

It’s insane, because it means that as Fonollosa got to come home to his gorgeous, loving little wife, somehow Martín was still on his mind.

And he must have mentioned him more than once for Tatiana to remember him. For her to _hire him,_ with the certainty that this if she wanted to get back at her husband, Martín Berrote was the best way to get under his skin.

An honor, truly. 

An offering.

By the time the waiter brings their food, Martín has decided that he likes Tatiana de Fonollosoa. Very much.

Which is why he tries to demonstrate just a hint of professionalism by actually getting to know his shiny new client. What Tatiana wants from him. How she wishes to proceed. 

She just came back from several months touring all over Europe with her orchestra, hence the long separation. But now that she’s back in Madrid, she seems in quite the hurry to finalize her divorce. Martín suspects a new lover. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t actually care. 

He finds out what their marriage was like. Engaged after dating for barely three weeks, married for about two years. A whirlwind romance. Near strangers with wedding rings. That’s hilarious.

Tatiana is now in great terms with her husband and no longer seeks revenge, and for that, Martín is hit with a pinch of disappointment. But they’ll settle out of court. Just the three of them in an office or a conference room. Oddly intimate. Martín can work with that.

As he starts to figure out the mystery that is Tatiana de Fonollosa, Martín realizes she was never actually a mystery. She was an anomaly.

Based on Fonollosa's reputation, he wasn't sure what he expected his wife to be like. A bimbo. An empty-headed gold digger. Someone vapid, and not that bright if she fell for his superficial charms and flashy personality. 

Martín knew it would be a beautiful woman, and beautiful she is. But predictability stops there. 

Because Andrés de Fonollosa's soon to be ex-wife is, against all odds, a delightful person. Smart and interesting. Friendly, in a way that isn't annoying or overtly fake. Funny. 

She’s professionally accomplished, a successful concerto pianist. An artist, of course.

Not a bimbo or a gold digger, then.

Here's the tragedy: Martín Berrote, a notorious homosexual, understands what Fonollosa saw in her. 

The other way around, however...

“Tatiana, you seem– for lack of a better word, _sane._ What the fuck were you ever doing marrying a guy like that?”

She smiles, a glint of amusement in her eye. Martín lets her pretend that he was being funny, even though the question he just asked is a very valid and serious one. What was she doing with _him?_

“Andrés is a complicated man”, Tatiana explains, a wistful inflexion in her voice. “But he makes a wonderful husband when he tries. He has this– this _ferver,_ almost... When he looks at you, when he _really_ looks at you, you feel seen. You feel special. He can be so sweet, so charming. Thoughtful, even.” 

“Are we talking about the same guy?”

She laughs.

“That’s the thing; the best of him is just as intense as the worst. For a very long time, he didn't show me the worst. I don't even think he made the conscious decision to hide a part of himself from me. He's just like that. Always playing a different part. With the different people in his life. It’s sad, if you think about it. Must be quite lonely. Maybe his brother truly knows him. I’m not sure. But I didn’t.” 

For a brief moment, Martín wonders if he _knows_ Fonollosa. In a way, he knows him better than his wife did. With Martín, he never bothered to hide anything. He could be as vile and despicable as he wanted.

Because, if Tatiana only ever got to see the _best_ of him, Martín’s experience of the man is quite different. As Fonollosa’s colleague – and sworn enemy – he only ever got to see the _worst_ of him. Narcissistic and ruthless and unpredictable. Pretentious and controlling. 

Ridiculously good-looking.

Yes, his looks are part of _‘the worst of him’._

Because he uses them for evil. To charm anyone on his path, to weasel his way out of anything. To get his opponents flustered with just one smile from the other side of the courtroom. To try and embarrass innocent attorneys near courthouse coffee machines. 

_Evil._

But Tatiana made a lot of good points. She's a smart woman, from what Martín gathered. 

A smart woman, except for one thing.

“Why, oh, why didn’t you get a prenup? Were you not aware he was a divorce attorney when you married him?”

She shrugs.

“Andrés didn’t want one.”

Martín is feeling a special kind of confusion. It makes so little sense, he feels almost _angry._ What kind of a divorce lawyer doesn’t get a prenup for their own marriage? 

“I don’t know if I want to scream at you or at him”, he says, truthfully. 

Tatiana is so lucky she hired Martín, because in her situation? Fonollosa could have easily taken everything she owns. But then again, the other way around is still an option. She could have gone for his shit. His flat, his money. Everything.

Fonollosa made himself so _vulnerable._

And he’s not your average layman. He’s the best fucking divorce attorney in Madrid. 

Second best. 

Either way, he was perfectly aware of the laws, of the risks he was taking. And still, he went all in. Knowingly. Willingly.

“I don’t understand”, Martín croaks, surprised to find how shaken he is by this.

This recklessness, this doesn’t match. It’s not Fonollosa. Not the one Martín knows.

Tatiana sighs. She’s probably had this conversation before.

“He may not look like it in a professional setting, but Andrés is quite the romantic”, she says. “When he's in love, he goes all in. He doesn't want to plan for the worst. He actively refuses to even consider it. That we might have needed a prenup. That we’d ever get divorced.”

“A romantic...”, Martín repeats, bewildered. 

Intrigued.

“I don’t believe he had a prenup with any of his previous wives, either”, Tatiana adds. “This probably won’t come as a surprise to you, but my husband is very stubborn.”

Finally, something that makes sense. 

Martín snaps out of his daze and grabs Tatiana’s arm.

“You’ll find I’m very stubborn too”, he boasts. “Which means, if you change your mind about playing nice and being cordial, I can absolutely get you half of everything he owns. Just say the word and we go to war. I’m ready.”

Tatiana just stares at him and smiles. For a second too long. 

When Martín is starting to wonder if he’s got something in his teeth, she speaks again.

“You’re not how I thought you would be.”

That’s not ominous at all.

“How am I, then?”, he asks, a playful grin on his lips. 

“You remind me of him. So much.”

Martín doesn’t know exactly how offended or flattered he should feel right now. He’s probably a bit of both. 

“With the way he talks about you, I assumed you two would be polar opposites. But you’re not. If you and Andrés didn’t already know each other, my first instinct would have been to introduce you to him. God knows he needs friends.”

And just like that, Martín is reminded of Operation Humiliation. All those shameful details he needs to learn.

“Are you telling me Fonollosa _doesn’t have any friends?”_

“Oh, he has a whole network of them”, Tatiana says, unhelpfully. “Influential people, colleagues. Employees. None of what I would consider real friends, though. They’re nothing more than pawns to him. People he can manipulate.”

Fonollosa couldn’t manipulate Martín if he tried. 

And he did try.

“You’re wrong”, Martín mumbles. “I’m nothing like him.”


	4. Offices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do you need me to stamp your loyalty card? Five divorces, and you get the sixth for free?”_

Martín tries not to fidget too much as he enters the belly of the beast. 

The entry hall alone is huge, and very posh, and he knows he doesn’t actually _look_ out of place, but he feels like he is. His building looks nothing like this.

Unlike him, Tatiana has been here before, so he follows her to the reception desk, then the elevator. Where Marquina is apparently waiting for them. 

His eyes grow wide when he sees Martín by her side.

“Morning Sergio!”, he calls, flashing his phoniest smile. “Thanks for the invite. Can’t wait to see what your humble little shack looks like from the inside…”

Marquina mutters something that sounds like _‘good morning’_ and pushes the top floor button. His eyes keep flicking between Martín and Tatiana.

The elevator doors close, the cabin starts going up, and the silence settles. 

There’s just a hint of awkwardness in the air, tingling, _tasty,_ as is expected when two people bound by a history of blackmail find themselves in an elevator together. For what promises to be a really long time. (God, how tall is this fucking building?)

The unease between them doesn’t get to Tatiana – sweet, oblivious Tatiana – as she makes polite small talk with her brother-in-law, _it’s nice to see you again, how’s it been in the office, does Andrés’s assistant still work here, I haven’t been here in so long, oh and remind me to send you guys tickets for my next recital..._

Considering the circumstances, her cheerful attitude should be unnerving. Martín finds it hilarious. He’d be happy too if he was divorcing Fonollosa.

Sergio clears his throat, and he seems more nervous than awkward. 

“I don’t know why I’m even surprised to see you here, Berrote. What is the saying? _The enemies of my enemies are my friends.”_

“Well, yeah. Pretty much.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this”, Tatiana chimes in. 

She’s wrong of course. 

Yes, it has to be like this. Hostile. Stimulating. 

And if Sergio wasn’t expecting Martín today, perhaps Fonollosa doesn’t know either.

Amazing. 

He’s going to _hate_ this. 

And Martín will have front row seats to his reaction. God, he hopes Fonollosa throws a fit. Breaks stuff. Fires someone on the spot.

Just like that, Martín’s anxiety has become irrelevant.

Sure, the elevator is still way too big, and definitely doesn’t need that mosaic design on the floor, or those pretentious golden patterns all over the walls. But Martín won’t let himself be thrown off by the swanky little details he keeps noticing. It doesn’t matter. He’s ready.

“So you’re working the divorce too, then?”, Martín asks, filling the silence. “I assumed Fonollosa would just self-represent.”

“Yes, he’s allowed to do that”, Sergio confirms. “Actually, he has done that. He didn’t get a lawyer for any of his previous divorces. _‘I’m the best in the city, hermanito, who would I even hire?’”_

Newsflash: today, Martín really likes Sergio.

“What made him change his mind?”

“He lost his car to his fourth wife. He annoyed the entire courtroom and Sierra wanted to shut him up.”

Martín snorts.

“Yeah, that checks out.”

He’s only been in the building for a few minutes and he’s already privy to exclusive little tidbits of information about Fonollosa’s mysterious life. The divorces he handled sloppily. The misfortunes past. The tale of the lost car. 

That one must have hurt. Fonollosa doesn’t drive that often, these days. He gets places. He can afford all the cab rides he wants, after all. But Martín does remember, a few years back, seeing him parading around in one of those vintage cars. Probably a collector’s item, extremely rare, priceless.

And now, he knows why the obnoxious flaunting had to stop. 

It’s a tragedy, really, that Martín never managed to spark a fire of revenge in Tatiana. Not one vindictive cell in her body. Oh, the fun he would have had, making a claim on Fonollosa’s apartment and getting it for Tatiana. 

If only, for the privilege of witnessing Fonollosa turn out unmarried and homeless in a single day. Thrown out into the street, perhaps on a rainy day. His hands would be full, so Fonollosa couldn’t hold an umbrella, crumbling as he’d be under a pile of boxes, a few suitcases. The pouring rain tousling his hair, dribbling down his face and soaking his suit, until the cold had him shaking, froze him to the bone, paralyzed, powerless.

A taste of failure in Fonollosa’s mouth. 

Is that too much to ask?

Realistically, Fonollosa would most likely hire a moving company and go golfing with bankers and businessmen, while minimum wage employees carried his stuff to his newer, better, bigger apartment. But Martín is an imaginative guy, and what is or isn’t realistic never stopped him from picturing a pleasing scenario. 

With or without Tatiana’s help, he _will_ be ringing the bells of justice.

The bell Martín hears instead, at least for now, is the one of the elevator. A short ding as the doors open to their floor.

 _‘Fonollosa & Associates’,_ say the gigantic golden letters on the wall. 

That’s the first thing Martín sees. He’s barely stepped out of the elevator.

“Damn, I wonder who works here”, Martín scoffs. “Marquina, would you be so kind as to read that for me? The letters aren’t big enough and I don’t have my glasses with me...”

“Martín, _por favor”,_ Sergio sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I know you don’t carry my brother in your heart, but today, just today, can you make an effort? It’s not easy for him. It’s not easy for _anyone_. I’m just asking you not to make it worse.”

Why does Martín feel like a misbehaving child being scolded by the schoolteacher in front of the whole class? 

Well, _‘the whole class’_ might be a bit of an exaggeration. It’s just Tatiana. And a bored looking woman sitting behind the front desk. She gives Martín the side eye and doesn’t bother with any form of greeting or politeness. Oh, he can see how she’d fit right in, in Fonollosa’s service.

Martín pats Sergio on the shoulder, his best attempt at conveying _‘for you, I’ll make an effort’,_ without actually making any promises he knows he won’t keep. 

It seems to be enough for him. 

Sergio guides them towards a cozy little – huge – waiting area. 

Martín takes it all in. 

The floor to ceiling windows, the intricately engraved wooden doors. He doesn't miss the extravagant chandelier, or the expensive-looking art on the walls. Or the golden plaque. 

_‘Andrés de Fonollosa – Fonollosa & Associates’. _

Once again, whose offices are these, exactly? Such a mystery.

Martín had great hopes for today. He wanted the place to look awful, the decorations to clash, the atmosphere to be hostile. He wanted that, he needed that. Badly. 

But he finds it oddly inviting. 

Ostentatious to the extreme, sure, but in good taste. Pleasant to walk into. Probably very pleasant to work in as well.

An injustice.

Martín doesn’t have to wait for too long before one of the doors open, revealing the self proclaimed _‘best divorce attorney in the city’,_ dashing as always _,_ standing tall in his three-piece suit of the day. 

Fonollosa walks out without a word, and Martín catches the unmistakable surprise on his face as their eyes meet. A frown, a twitch of his eyelid. It’s very subtle.

Martín holds his breath, bracing himself for the meltdown. 

It never comes. 

Fonollosa looks at Sergio, at Tatiana. At Martín again. 

He nods.

“Good morning everyone”, he greets, his voice deeper than usual. “Come on in, we have a lot of work today.”

Martín is extremely disappointed. 

But then again, there’s something thrilling about seeing a side of him he didn’t know before. The wild Fonollosa in his natural habitat. Serene and reasonable. Accessible.

“Morning”, Martín mumbles as he walks through the door. “Nice offices, Fonollosa. Almost tacky, but not quite.”

Martín flinches at the sound, so loud, so unexpected, of Fonollosa’s laughter.

* * *

When he was hired as Tatiana’s divorce attorney, Martín hoped this would be his chance to witness Fonollosa at his lowest. To watch him boil as his private life was exposed to his least trusted colleague, to see him agitated, in anger, in shame, that his romantic failures were hitting him across the face.

But of course Fonollosa has never been predictable.

For the entirety of the procedure, he’s been nothing if not charming. To Tatiana. To her lawyer too. As though they were discussing a completely standard case that didn’t affect him intimately. 

Martín thinks he’s in complete denial. Overcompensating by being courteous and welcoming all the time. 

He greets Tatiana with a hug or a kiss on the hand.

Martín gets a polite handshake, a tap on the shoulder.

It’s all fake. It’s confusing.

When Martín roasts him an appropriate amount for being the only divorce lawyer in the world not to get a prenup, Fonollosa doesn’t even fight back. He smiles through it. As though Martín, with his questions, his mockery, is completely missing the point.

Maybe he is. He still doesn’t get it.

* * *

The second time Martín finds himself at _Fonollosa & Associates _ ’ law offices, there’s a cup of coffee waiting for him in the conference room. Nothing like the tiny styrofoam cups Martín has the luxury of enjoying, over at _Madrid Legal._ A proper coffee. Something from a fancy café. It smells heavenly. 

Sergio, Tatiana and Fonollosa all have matching cups in front of them on the table, so Martín assumes it’s not poisoned.

He takes one delicious sip. 

And nearly chokes on it.

“You fucking _didn’t!”,_ Martín exclaims, getting another taste just to be sure.

Yes. Caramel macchiato. Extra cocoa powder. Martín’s exact coffee order.

“I knew I got it right”, Fonollosa says, grinning at him across the table. “Although, I don’t believe that the barista did a little drawing in the foam before he put the lid on. I hope it’s alright with you.”

Martín tries not to be impressed. This is ridiculous. He gave Fonollosa his coffee order _once_. Sarcastically. He can’t believe the bastard fucking remembered it. 

“Why?”, is all Martín can manage. 

Fonollosa doesn’t look at him, handing Sergio and Tatiana various documents to review.

“These are my offices”, he mumbles, as though Martín is being a bit dense, “and you, as my wife’s attorney, are my guest. I’m being hospitable. You’re welcome.”

He sounds awfully smug, _superior,_ and Martín is taken with the urgent and compelling urge to embarrass him. 

He smiles at Sergio, at Tatiana, and snaps back.

“Last time you bought me coffee, you offered to fuck me in the middle of the courthouse.”

And then he _didn't._

Which was, perhaps, the greatest sin of all.

Fonollosa’s eyebrows shoot up, his precious papers forgotten.

“We both know that’s not what happened.”

Here we go again. Did Martín make him look bad in front of the missus? Well, that’s a shame.

Fonollosa continues.

“I have a feeling you’re being difficult on purpose. I wouldn’t have fucked you in the _middle_ of the courthouse. If I remember correctly, the consensus was that storage room in archives. Unless you’d have preferred I dragged you into the nearest conference room and bent you over the table?”

Martín is not fucking speechless. 

Fonollosa does not have that power over him. 

It just takes him a few moments to collect his thoughts and settle on the right comeback for that repulsive suggestion. That provocation.

And he definitely doesn’t picture it. 

Vividly. 

Fonollosa’s hands on him, twisting his arms behind his back, pressing Martín’s cheek onto the cold, hard surface of the table as he hurriedly drags up his robes, drags down his pants, _touches him_. Firm palms against his ass, nimble fingers inside him, Fonollosa’s chest weighing on his back as lips and tongue and teeth are ravaging his neck and then, the unmistakable pressure against his entrance, thrilling, intoxicating, pushing inside him–

“You think I’d let _you_ fuck me?”

Martín’s tone is casual, his smirk confident. He prays he doesn’t look as feverish as he feels.

“Yes. You would let me.”

_Hijo de la gran–_

“First of all, how dare you? A _conference room?_ Whatever happened to wining and dining? Second of all, we _barely_ know each other. Let’s start with a blowjob first, um? Work our way up from there. See what happens after we get ourselves better acquainted…”

To Martín’s surprise, Fonollosa bites back a smile. It seems they’re both enjoying this a little too much.

“I haven’t grown that desperate that I’d settle for a man’s mouth, Berrote. Although I’m flattered to know you’d readily kneel for me.” 

“In your dreams, perhaps.”

Marquina loudly clears his throat. 

“Can you two _not–”_

“Do excuse him, Sergio”, Martín sighs, reminding the room that _Fonollosa started this._ “Your brother doesn’t know how to handle a case without trying to flirt his way out of actually doing his job. Which isn’t going to work today, I’m afraid.”

Fonollosa squints at him.

“Your self restraint is admirable.”

Tatiana laughs, extremely amused by this exchange. 

Sergio, however, looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. 

This meeting is going to be a long one.

* * *

Martín is on his way out when Marquina catches up to him. Tatiana has already left, so it’s just the two of them, standing in the hallway by the elevator. 

“Good work, today”, Martín tells him, even though he doesn’t particularly mean it.

“Yes, it’s going well. Better than last time.”

Martín presses the call button of the elevator again. And again. And again. Just to be sure. He’s exhausted, so he pretends not to notice how fidgety Marquina looks. If he’s got something to ask him, he better spit it out soon because Martín is not sticking around. 

A bath. He needs a long, hot, relaxing bath. And possibly a booty call. That’s relaxing too.

“Martín, I wondered if... Have you seen Raquel recently? Is she doing well?”

So _that’s_ what this was about. 

Have Sergio and Raquel _really_ not seen each other since her divorce?

“I thought you guys were still dating”, he mumbles, still not interested.

“What? No. No, we were never– I mean, the whole... _‘date’ thing._ It was just for the pictures. She wasn’t really interested.”

_“Oh my god!”_

As a divorce attorney and a man of vocation, Martín’s deal in life is breaking up couples. Making two people infinitely happier by freeing them from the confines and misery of monogamy. 

The exact opposite of what Martín is about to do. 

He finds it horrifying that he has to play matchmaker right now. _Horrifying._

“Marquina”, he starts. “Sergio. You have her number and you know where she lives. Fucking take her out again, I don’t know. After that stunt you pulled, she’s not gonna say no.”

Sergio stares blankly, and Martín remembers he wasn’t technically _supposed_ to know that it was him who sent the evidence that got Alberto convicted. Well, thanks to Ánibal, he does know. Whatever.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone”, Martín reassures him. “I know it wasn’t an easy decision to go behind your brother’s back. I’m not a snitch.”

“Martín–”

“I’m curious though”, he insists. “Are you working with a private detective or something? I mean, the pictures and the footage, that’s one thing. But where did you even find the police reports?”

Sergio, annoyingly, doesn’t drop the charade.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What police reports?”

Now Martín is sure he’s lying, because Sergio _knows_ about the police reports. Martín told him. 

He told him. 

He mentioned them in that one email.

Or did he? No, yes, he did.

It was Sergio. It had to be Sergio, there’s no other possible–

“I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep. Martín, how many coffees did you have today? You don’t look well.”

“Thanks a lot for that.”

Martín’s mouth is dry and his ears are ringing. He stands there. His head is heavy.

“You know what? You’re right. I’m very tired. I must have gotten my cases mixed up.”

Sergio frowns, unconvinced, and Martín is rescued by the elevator finally reaching their floor. He leaps into the cabin.

“Listen”, he blurts out, relieved to see Sergio isn’t following him inside the elevator. “About Raquel. You know she has a kid, right? I’m not sure why you’d even want to get mixed up in _that_ –” 

_“Martín!”_

As expected, Marquina looks _outraged._ And most importantly, distracted. 

“Alright, just checking”, he teases. “Well if you call, she _will_ pick up the phone. Trust me.”

Sergio smiles awkwardly and that’s just– No. Thank god he’s not the hugging type. 

Martín winks at him and plasters on a confident smirk until the elevator doors close between them. 

Then, and only then, does he allow himself to freak out about this. 

He tries to make sense of what he just learnt.

He can’t.

Sergio wasn’t lying. He was genuinely confused. He _didn’t_ send the evidence to the courthouse. But Martín had Ánibal look into it. The anonymous tip came from that address. He’s positive. 

So if Sergio didn’t even know about the reports...

It means–

It means Andrés de Fonollosa went looking for evidence against his own client, that he then proceeded to send to the courthouse. 

It means that when Martín snapped at him about the domestic violence, about Raquel telling the truth, about the wiped records, _Fonollosa listened to him._

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t.

It’s not even the complete lack of logic there, undermining his own case, exposing to his own client, _letting Martín win..._

It’s the fact that, if this is true, then it means that Andrés de Fonollosa has a heart after all. 

Or a conscience. At the very least.

See? It doesn’t make sense.

* * *

In spite of Martín’s best efforts, the Fonollosa divorce is and remains amicable. Andrés and Tatiana have been separated for a while anyway. They’ve both had new lovers since, claimed their respective possessions and let go of everything else. Including the grudges. 

In Martín’s experience, it’s practically unheard of. A textbook case.

A case that never goes in front of any judge. They’re ready to sign, out of court, like mature, reasonable adults.

On the big day, Fonollosa welcomes his wife and her lawyer into his offices with a dazzling smile and – to Martín’s dismay – a humongous bouquet of flowers. 

This is a fucking joke.

“There you are!”, he exclaims, disturbingly chipper. “Today is an important date in our lives. Let’s treat it accordingly.”

Tatiana laughs softly, completely unfazed, as Fonollosa drops the botanic monstrosity in her arms. He then leads the way to what he pompously calls _the signature room._ It’s just a regular conference room, like in any other law practice. He doesn’t need to be… that much. All the time.

Martín tries not to get thrown off by the weirdness of it all.

They sign the papers. 

The divorce is finalized. 

When Fonollosa laughs and pulls his now ex-wife into a hug, Martín meets Marquina’s eyes across the room. At last, someone who looks as baffled as is appropriate. 

So this _is_ unusual, then. Fonollosa's other divorces were not like that. 

Interesting.

Fonollosa embraces his brother briefly, then walks up to Martín. He offers him an enthusiastic handshake. And a squeeze on the shoulder that’s a bit too familiar for Martín’s taste.

“Thank you for your help, Berrote”, he says, beaming at him. 

“Why are you weird?”, Martín asks, when what he really wants to know is _‘Why are you happy?’_

“Things went well, didn’t they? I believe in a divorce with a happy ending.”

Hey, that's Martín's line!

* * *

After the signature, Fonollosa makes a swift exit, Tatiana in tow, to enjoy a _‘celebratory lunch’._ As ex-spouses do, apparently.

He even summons his private assistant to join them; someone was needed to carry Tatiana’s gigantic flower arrangement, and apparently, it was this poor woman. 

Martín would feel bad for her, if it weren’t for the fact that she carries several knives with her at all times, and was instructed to use them on Martín if he was ever caught snooping around at _Fonollosa & Associates. _

She can choke on flower petals all day for all he cares.

“Blink twice if you need help”, Martín mocks when he passes her in the corridor.

Oliveira twists her angry face at him, but silently follows her boss and his ex-wife out of the offices.

Good riddance.

Before he knows it, Martín finds himself alone with Sergio. 

So he stays. 

_Fonollosa & Associates _do have a nice work space after all. Martín might as well get a head start on the few pending cases he has with Marquina. 

The day goes by pretty fast, in a studious, professional atmosphere. It seems Sergio still tolerates him, even one-on-one. Fantastic.

Martín doesn’t ask about Fonollosa, and Sergio doesn’t provide answers of his own. Maybe he doesn’t know any more. Maybe he doesn’t care. 

So what if Fonollosa and Tatiana, on the day of their divorce, look happier than most actual married couples? Maybe they’re still fucking on the side. Maybe they’re _friends._ Whatever their deal is, it’s not exactly a problem. 

And yet.

This whole situation feels off to him. _Fonollosa_ feels off to him. And Martín is almost positive that it’s not just his mind playing tricks to him. 

It’s not like it’s any of his business.

On his way out of Marquina’s office, Martín stops in his tracks before he reaches the elevator. Earlier this afternoon, as he was discussing the Pérez case with Marquina, he did hear Fonollosa come back from his lunch. He knows he’s still in the building. He could– 

He might as well.

Martín sighs and turns on his heels, walking the ridiculously long distance from the entrance to Fonollosa’s office. He gives a short knock, hears muffled noises behind the door. Something that sounds like _‘What now?’_

Martín opens the door and, as he walks in, instantly knows that he’s intruding. 

He didn’t expect to find the room basked in near darkness. Come autumn, night starts falling quite early in Madrid, and apparently Fonollosa didn’t bother turning on the ceiling lights when it did. Only a desk lamp basks the room in its faint glow. 

Fonollosa is slumped over his desk, leaning on his elbows, with his head resting on the palm of his hand like it’s too heavy for his neck alone to carry. His other hand is fiddling with a glass of– something. 

A fancy crystal decanter still sits on his desk, only half full with an amber liquid. 

Half empty. 

“I was about to leave”, Martín blurts out, “and, uh, I thought I’d stop and say goodbye. Check in with you, maybe?”

“How _considerate_ of you”, Fonollosa slurs, and even in the dark, Martín doesn’t miss his twitching fingers, his glassy eyes. 

There’s the hint of a smirk playing on his lips, but it’s nothing like the false, sickly sweet smiles he’s had plastered on all day. This one is real. This one is bitter.

Martín realizes he’s been hovering by the door, unsure of what to say next. He should apologize. He should leave.

“You must be enjoying this”, Fonollosa says.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Berrote, _por favor…”_ Fonollosa’s smile doesn’t waver, and he sets a second glass on the desk. “If you’re going to gloat, the least you could do is close the door and join me.”

Oh.

That’s new.

“Well, if you’re sharing the booze...”

Fonollosa pours him a drink and Martín complies, almost on autopilot. His steps quickly lead him to one of the desk chairs, opposite Fonollosa. He takes a seat, grabs the glass, drinks the scotch. 

From up close, Fonollosa looks a mess. 

Well, as much a mess as he _can_ look. 

His suit jacket and his tie have been discarded, a few buttons of his shirt undone – showing a glimpse of chest hair Martín makes a point not to stare at. 

He figures the drinking must have made him too hot for his stuffy suit. 

Fonollosa doesn’t look defeated – he probably never does – but he seems... tired. More vulnerable, more _fragile_ than Martín has ever seen him.

He should be enjoying this, yes. Witnessing Fonollosa at a low point is the exact sort of thing he’d usually receive like a gift from the heavens. Never has Martín found him with his guard down like that. He could strike quite a blow right now. Kick him while he’s down. _Humiliate him._

“Well?”, Fonollosa asks, twirling the liquid in his glass and not drinking it. “Get on with it then…”

Martín smirks.

“I think I’ll take the high road, actually. It’s no fun if you’re just going to mope. I’ll lay into you when you’re in a state to take it.”

Fonollosa barks out a laugh.

“Are you here to cheer me up, Berrote? Next, you’re going to tell me there are plenty of fish in the sea. Should I also expect you to drive me home and tuck me into bed and sing me to sleep?”

“You should be so lucky”, Martín scoffs, “I’ll have you know I have a lovely singing voice.”

Again, Fonollosa lets out a sound resembling laughter.

With horror, Martín realizes that he has, in fact, been cheering him up. 

Not only is he not revelling in Fonollosa’s suffering. Not only is he not putting him down. He’s tiptoeing around him. Choosing his words carefully. 

“What were you even playing at, um?”, Martín adds after a beat. “Cause I’ve gotta hand it to you, that might have been the healthiest divorce I’ve ever worked. You made it look _easy.”_

Fonollosa pinches his lips.

“I’ve had a lot of practice…”

There it is.

Fonollosa still had _hope,_ didn’t he?

Up until the very end, it hadn’t fully dawned on him that his marriage was over. That Tatiana wasn’t coming back this time. 

That he’d failed, for the fifth time.

“Are you getting tired of divorces?”

“Not _other people’s_ divorces”, Fonollosa points out. “But going through one… ”

He’s being disturbingly candid. It’s gross. 

“The hatred of four women who used to adore me is plenty enough. When Tatiana left, I decided I would do it right this time. ”

So that’s what it was, then. The flowers and the smiles. Just another act. 

Martín goes with what feels familiar. 

“Wait wait wait... _she left?”,_ he repeats. “She left _you,_ oh my fucking– you really just said that! Out loud. To _me._ That you’re one who got _dumped_. You know I’ll never let you forget it, right?”

The glint in Fonollosa’s eye is one of amusement. Like Martín taunting him is just as comfortable to him as it is for Martín to taunt him. 

“I’m almost positive Tatiana met someone else”, is what he says. “It had nothing to do with me.”

“Of course it had _everything_ to do with you.”

Fonollosa’s smile vanishes from his face and he glares at Martín. Perhaps in anger. Perhaps something else. 

Did Martín _hurt him?_

That’s not– 

“Hey, _hey,_ I didn't mean it _like that!”,_ he backpedals. “Just. _From my experience._ Even when they leave you for someone else, it's still about you, in a way. They were faced with a choice, and they chose the other guy. It means you didn't withstand the comparison. You weren't enough to make them stay.”

A silence settles after his words, and Martín doesn’t do anything about it. 

He has no idea where this came from. He just needed Fonollosa to understand he wasn’t trying to put him down. For once. He was simply clumsy in the way he made his point.

It doesn’t seem Martín angered him, though. If anything, Fonollosa has been listening attentively. 

He wonders how sad Fonollosa actually is. 

Martín didn’t expect to find him in that state – whatever state that is – but Fonollosa sounds fine. This whole thing, sitting alone in his dark office, downing scotch until he smells like a distillery. It looks to Martín like he’s wallowing in his own misery. On purpose.

Heartbreak, like anything else, is an aesthetic to him. To be embraced to the fullest. To be performed. 

He probably bought his intricate liquor bottle exactly for moments like this one. Everything fills a purpose. Ties the picture together. 

With an exaggerated sigh, Fonollosa undoes the buttons of a sleeve and rolls it up to his elbow. The warm light of the desk lamp dances across the exposed skin. 

As Fonollosa sets out to roll up his other sleeve, Martín distracts himself with a bit of a look around. The office is big, but oddly welcoming. Nicely furnished.

Martín notices the newest addition, on the wall behind the desk. Among the framed Law degrees, the pictures with prominent politicians, stand out five divorce certificates. The latest one dated from today. All proudly displayed on the wall in their matching wooden frames. 

“Impressive collection.”

Fonollosa looks up, confused, and follows Martín’s gaze to the wall behind him.

“It reassures the clients to know that I’m just like them”, he explains. “That I understand what they’re going through, that I’ve _suffered_ as well _._ Now, five times over.”

He’s so full of shit.

“Do you need me to stamp your loyalty card? Five divorces, and you get the sixth for free? You know what, you probably deserve it. After all your _suffering._ Call me for your next divorce, I’ll do you _pro bono.”_

Fonollosa pokes at his own lip with his index finger, a grin soon blossoming under the curious touch of his fingertip. 

“Oh, I never doubted that you’d _‘do me’_ pro bono, Berrote… You made that very clear. Many, many times.”

Martín wonders how thick those windows are. 

If he tackles him, if he puts all his weight into it… well, perhaps with enough momentum he can break the glass with Fonollosa’s body and toss him out onto the street.

“Thanks for the offer, Berrote. Whatever offer it actually is. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you up on it. See, five is such a satisfying number. I’ve elected to make this my last divorce.”

“The trick is never getting married again. If you can control yourself.”

Fonollosa treats him to another laugh, and Martín finishes his drink instead of basking in the beautiful sound. He stands up, then, surprised at how long he stayed already. At how civil they both managed to be.

“You don’t actually need a ride home, do you?”

Fonollosa looks a little happier and a little less drunk than when Martín walked in.

“My brother is still in the building”, he announces, weirdly formal. “You’re free from my company for the night.”

Martín shakes his head and makes his way towards the door.

“Thank you, Berrote.”

Fonollosa almost sounds surprised by the words leaving his mouth.

“Sure, no problem.”

Martín has already left the building when he figures that the _‘thank you’_ wasn’t only about the ride he offered. 

And he completely forgot to ask about the Murillo divorce. Or to be petty about Barcelona. 

Next time, then. There’ll be other opportunities.

Martín might not hold his liquor as well as he used to. There’s a spring in his step as he walks to his car, a lightness, odd and confusing.

He tucks that feeling away and doesn’t think about the way Fonollosa looked tonight, smiling and open, and yet so guarded. 

The sound of his laughter still follows Martín home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart by [boom slap](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1359605338299891713) ♡


	5. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fonollosa is tolerable today. Or, most likely, he’s just as insufferable as he’s always been, and Martín is simply becoming immune to his bullshit. When you ingest just a little bit of poison on a regular basis, you build up a higher tolerance to it, don’t you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read and peer-reviewed by [boom slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap), thank you so much for everything ♡

A divorce attorney and a receptionist walk into a bar.

Well, they’re trying to.

It’s about four thirty in the morning, so the place is deserted – at least it better be – and locked for the night. But Martín trusts his favorite tech wizard to work his magic on the backdoor. No pun intended.

“Digital locks are the fucking best”, Ánibal whispers excitedly, as he types away on an electronic device that Martín couldn't even name.

He's not _that old,_ alright. The kid's a genius with questionable equipment. That's all.

“I'm no legal expert of course”, Ánibal pipes up again, “but is it _really_ ‘breaking and entering’ if you don’t actually, you know… break anything?”

Martín _is_ a legal expert, and that's an argument he can get behind.

In a matter of seconds, the control panel lights up, the locks make a faint clicking sound, and with a proud grin, Ánibal pushes the door open.

Barely any noise and absolutely zero property damage.

With a spring in his step, Martín follows him inside the empty bar.

“Ánibal I could kiss you right now!”

“Please don't.”

As stealth missions go, this one is pretty badass for your average divorce attorney on a week-night. Or, week- _morning_ , he supposes.

They quickly find the security room, and thank god Ánibal knows his way around the equipment, because Martín sure doesn’t. Not that it stops him from taking a look. There’s a lot of footage to browse through. Endless recordings of loose, attractive men; drinking, making out with each other, and redefining the word _‘dancing’_ every night by performing various degrees of foreplay on the dancefloor. It goes from light frottage to full-on dry humping. Good stuff.

“Not even pixelated!”, Martín cheers, feeling like a kid let loose at the toy store. “Gotta love high definition!”

“You’re not helping.”

_Killjoy._

Ánibal Cortés is an adequate receptionist.

Martín sees him every day at work, and they're cordial. Nothing more.

Because Ánibal is only Martín's _coworker._

Río, however... Ah, hackers and their usernames, almost like a secret identity. Well, _Río_ is what Martín considers to be The Fun Ánibal. The only one he's interested in.

Because that's Río, and definitely not Ánibal, who’s doing all sorts of illegal things, including breaking into a bar right this instant, for the sake of Martín's case. Now, that's almost a friend.

“Martín I swear if you touch another button I’ll reactivate the alarm on you myself!”

Nevermind, Ánibal’s just a colleague. A vaguely friendly work proximity. With a shitty attitude.

* * *

In spite of his vibrant, dazzling personality, Martín doesn’t have that many friends. Nor does he maintain any form of meaningful relationship with any of his relatives. And things are better that way.

He does have a _nemesis,_ which is not that ordinary, but also very exciting in its own slightly messed up way.

And he has colleagues and acquaintances that appear vaguely friend-shaped under the right light.

But he also has Mirko.

He’s known him for almost as long as he’s known Ágata, a mere few weeks after she got started at _Madrid Legal_. She’s the one who introduced them, many years ago, in that well-meaning attempt straight people tend to have when they find out their desk neighbor plays for the other team. _My bestie is gay. My new coworker is also gay. A match made in heaven_.

At the time, Ágata clearly didn’t know Martín very well. Or at all, really. Otherwise the idea wouldn’t have ever crossed her mind. Not with how protective she is of her beloved teddy bear. Mirko is much more of a sensitive soul than meets the eye, and definitely someone Martín would have hurt a great deal if he’d ever given this a shot.

Thankfully, he didn’t. He befriended him instead, and the three of them are forever grateful for it.

Over the years, Ágata has become painfully aware of what kind of a trainwreck Martín actually is – of the gross romantic incompatibilities between her two token gay friends – and she now lives in shameful remorse of what she almost did to the both of them by trying to set them up. And no, Martín will never let her live this down. Obviously not.

The point is, this case matters to him. Because Mirko matters to him.

Which is why, in a moment of weakness, Martín might admit to being slightly nervous about today’s hearing. For many reasons.

He is aware of how ambitious he’s being, trying his luck outside of his field of expertise.

He only agreed to it because a friend needed his help. And because he’s got a strong enough case against Ramírez that it should be a walk in the park. And it will be.

It _has_ to be.

“Berrote!”, Fonollosa cheers when he spots him that morning, waiting with Mirko in the courthouse lobby. “What a _pleasant surprise_ it was to see your name on the file. Again.”

He says it with the perfect amount of sarcasm, draws out the words for added douchebaggery – a _pleeeeeasant surpriiiiiise_ – but the twisted angle of his smile, the lines at the corners of his eyes, could almost fool Martín into believing it. He’s wondering if, under the shiny protective veneer of irony, Fonollosa might be just a little bit pleased to see him too. Genuinely.

Which is a dangerous notion for Martín to be entertaining right now.

“Well, I sure wasn’t surprised when I saw it was you”, he replies, deadpan. “Whenever the client’s a piece of shit, I always assume you won’t be far behind.”

Fonollosa throws his head back in laughter. Laughing _at_ him, laughing _with_ him, Martín couldn’t say, but the hearty sound spills from his lips, deep, warm, and the sudden movement highlights quite nicely the sharpness of his jawline, the elegant column of his throat, a surprisingly prominent adam's apple…

Martín promptly looks away before Mirko can claim he’s been staring – he hasn’t – and it’s just as well because someone else is approaching them. A twitchy little fellow, lurking behind Fonollosa without a word.

“Señor Ramírez”, Fonollosa introduces him. “The defendant.”

Ah... The aforementioned piece of shit. Good morning to everyone but him.

Martín shakes his hand without a second look, and realizes he should be introducing his client too.

“And this is Mirk– uh, Señor Dragic. He’s the plaintiff.”

Fonollosa politely shakes Mirko’s hand as well, and Martín experiences a mental shock on par with spotting your elementary school teacher at the grocery store, with his cart full of hard liquors and sad instant noodles. Something like that.

Martín has been bracing himself for today, but he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. Fonollosa and Mirko in the same room. It just clashes.

Two very different parts of Martín’s life, two versions of him that always stayed separate, are now forced to cohabitate on the same plane of existence. It’s jarring, to say the least. Because _Berrote,_ Fonollosa’s colleague, and _Martín,_ Mirko’s friend, are _not_ the same person. Nor should they be.

Berrote, the one Fonollosa knows, holds himself with dignity. He commands the room with his clever words and his courtroom skills. He wears nice suits (nice _-ish,_ according to some people), he’s punctual and clean shaven; a decent, respectable professional _._

Martín, however, is the guy Mirko once saw take five consecutive body shots off of five different sets of abs and/or pecs; belonging, of course, to five different young men (most of whom Martín didn’t know the name of, how wonderful). Martín is also the guy who ugly cried all over Mirko’s shirt when Hernando left, who drank half of his liquor cabinet when Enrique cheated, and who made him listen to his pathetic insecure rants for the remaining six months of relationship with Enrique, _after_ he found out about the cheating. Martín is the guy who had no life in college, and made up for it by having a little too much life in the years that followed, and Mirko was there to bear witness to it all.

So in the span of that one, inconspicuous handshake, Martín Berrote cringes, quietly, and two worlds collide.

But no one else seems aware of the internal turmoil he’s going through. He must be really good at playing it cool.

He’s also acutely aware that this is the first time he’s seeing Fonollosa in almost a month. The first time since the divorce.

He looks good today. Well– He looks _better_ than he did that night. More put together. Less... open-shirt-open-heart.

Martín was afraid it might be awkward, but nothing transpires. Perhaps because they’re in the presence of their respective clients.

Fonollosa even grabs Martín’s shoulder in a gesture as overly familiar as it is patronizing.

Martín takes a step back and squirms away from his grasp, and Fonollosa doesn’t address it.

“This ought to be entertaining”, he says instead. “I’m curious to see how well you manage outside of your comfort zone. I didn’t know you were well-versed in labor law.”

Now, Martín is by no means, _‘well-versed in labor law’._ Or in any other field of law that strays away from divorce courts and custody agreements.

He took maybe two courses relevant for this case? An eternity ago. A semester or so before he knew family law would be his thing. But apparently that was enough for Ágata to send Mirko to him instead of taking on the case herself. And when she heard Martín’s outrage at Mirko’s story, when she saw the vengeful wrath that overcame him, she seemed to trust that she could leave her best friend in Martín’s very capable hands.

And now, Fonollosa is taunting him. Like Martín is no threat to him at all. Like he’ll be nothing more than _entertainment_ to him today. That cannot fly.

“I’ll have you know I passed _‘Civil Rights’_ and _‘Workplace Discrimination’_ top of the class”, Martín boasts. “I had no other choice but to ace it. Otherwise they would have revoked my homo privileges.”

“Of course...”, Fonollosa says, mirroring his smirk. “How inspired of you to play the gay card, today of all days. Very tasteful.”

Ramírez doesn’t seem as amused by Martín’s joke as his lawyer is, and audibly huffs and puffs before he storms into the courtroom and away from them.

Okay, we get it, you’re very homophobic. No need to be cartoonish about it.

Fonollosa sighs deeply before following behind Mister Frowny Face, and Martín does catch him rolling his eyes in the process.

Serves him right for representing evil people.

* * *

Oddly enough, Fonollosa is tolerable today. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.

Or most likely, he’s just as insufferable as he’s always been, and Martín is simply becoming immune to his bullshit.

When you ingest just a little bit of poison on a regular basis, you build up a higher tolerance to it, don’t you?

That must be what’s happening to him.

Because, as Fonollosa is rambling on and on and on, monopolizing the courtroom for way longer than he needs to, Martín listens to him, and looks at him, and finds that he doesn’t want to hurt him as much as he used to.

Maybe it’s having seen him at his divorce. At his _lowest_. It humanized him. At least, enough for Martín to see him as a human.

Now, a human that remains his worst nightmare.

But a human nonetheless.

For the few days following the signature of Fonollosa’s divorce, Martín wasn’t entirely sure that it had even happened. Their shared glass of scotch. Their shared _moment._ Unexpected as it was.

It would be just like him to get drunk on a weeknight and conjure up weird, work-related fever dreams. And this specific vision is indeed quite alluring: Fonollosa indulging in self pity, impaired and vulnerable. Within reach.

A picture so vivid, so tantalizing, it would be perfectly in character for Martín to make it all up.

But then there was the friendliness. The friendliness then, and the friendliness just now too.

The easy conversation between them. The smiles, the laughs, the softness in his voice.

That, Martín couldn’t have predicted. Or dreamed up.

Fonollosa doesn’t seem any close to being done with his impassioned defense of his client’s character. _Señor Ramírez is a hardworking, honest man, a godly man. He built his restaurant chain from the ground up, and even now that he has an empire, he still treats his employees like one big family, blah blah blah…_

Judge Tamayo clearly spots it when Martín rolls his eyes but doesn’t mention it. Because he agrees. Fonollosa _should_ shut it.

Martín is almost relieved at the annoyance steadily building up inside his chest, the first hints of a headache pounding at his temples, the irritated fidgeting of his own fingers on the table. It’s comforting, really. At last, something familiar. Fonollosa is still pompous, still fucking annoying, still enamored with the sound of his own voice.

Still charming and eloquent, too. Not that it's of any relevance. But he is. It would be hard not to notice.

His voice echoes in the courtroom and inside Martín's skull, and he's hooked on his every word. Which is rude of him, because those words are utter horseshit.

“Okay, we don’t have all day”, Martín finally breaks, “why would anyone here care that the defendant threw his elderly secretary a birthday party on company time? Woohoo, he likes cake! Everyone likes cake. Doesn’t have anything to do with my client or his wrongful termination.”

Mirko tenses up beside him, and Martín pats his forearm reassuringly before he leaves his seat and walks up to the _enemy_ side of the courtroom.

He stands in front of the defendant and leans across the table Ramírez is sat at, all smug and confident, privilege dripping off of him.

 _“Señorrrr Ramírez”,_ he starts with a sickly sweet smile, pointedly not looking at Fonollosa, “on a scale from one to ten, how homophobic would you say you are?”

“Probably an–”

 _“Don’t answer that!”,_ Fonollosa cuts off, rushing to his client’s rescue. “As I was saying before _you interrupted me,_ your client has no ground to be suing for work discrimination since Señor Ramírez, at the time he let go Señor Dragic, did not know of his… _sexual preferences.”_

Look at him with his dramatic pauses and his soft language. Not a hair out of place, always so goddamn immaculate.

“Oh, he didn't know? Is that your final line of defense?”

“It is–”

“Tut tut tut… I’m asking the defendant, Fonollosa, not you.” He turns to Ramírez. “My client, Mirko Dragic, had been in your employment as a waiter for eight years, without any incident or complaint. Then, about six months ago, you suddenly decided to let him go. Which my client suspects happened because you found out about– you know… his _preferences_ , as your counsel so delicately put it.”

Martín starts to pace back and forth as he talks, in the unnerving way he’s seen Fonollosa do countless times. He gets it. It does feel nice to hog all the attention in such a pretentious way.

“Now I want to believe it’s just a coincidence, Señor Ramírez. I do. Because this world we live in is a dark, ugly place, and I’d rather fool myself into thinking it’s nicer, brighter. Rainbow-colored. But it’s not. It’s full of people like you. Because you knew, didn’t you? That’s the entire reason you fired him. You knew that he was, that _he is_ – much like myself, by the way – a raging homosexual. And it was unacceptable, _of_ _course_ you couldn't bear to keep employing a pansy, could you? To keep giving his hard earned money to a known pillow biter, a warmer Bruder, an uphill gardener–”

 _“Berrote”,_ Fonollosa sighs, his burning gaze not leaving him. And weirdly, keeping him centered. Focused.

Fine. _Fine._

He wraps up his point in a more conventional, boring way.

“In summary, you knew that my client was gay.”

“I didn’t”, Ramírez replies, crossing his arms and looking at Martín with nothing but contempt.

“Are you _sure?_ In eight years, you never had even a suspicion that this lovely man on the plaintiff chair was of the _sort_ who, in their spare time, engages in such activities as cocksucking and assfuck–”

Martín is cut off by Ramírez's loud fit of cough, and Judge Tamayo's – even louder – banging of the gavel.

Freedom of speech _where?_

He's speaking his truth and he's being _silenced._

Among the offended whispers, Ramírez speaks up.

“I didn’t know. I had no way to know. I fired him because he stole from the register, not because he's a _maric–_ not because of his _lifestyle choices.”_

“Charming.”

Ramírez's face is on its way to firetruck red, which was the goal, wasn't it? Making him show his true colors. Not that Martín ever intended it quite so literally.

He can’t help but glance at Fonollosa next to him, because really? _This guy, really?_

To the naked eye, Fonollosa’s demeanor is calm and collected as ever. But the way he squints at Martín is wrong. His posture is too rigid. _Forced._ One might discern a little bit of anxiety brimming underneath the surface.

It’s probably wishful thinking, but Martín doesn’t think it is. He’s getting better at reading him.

And Fonollosa _does not want_ his client to open his mouth for too long. Martín can see why.

Tough luck, because he’s not quite done.

“Señor Ramírez, if you’ve ever found yourself downtown on a lonely night, you might have come across a quirky little establishment called _El Bandolero_. Which is, for the unlucky few of you who do not know, arguably the best gay bar in the city.”

“I don’t see the relevance of–”, Fonollosa starts.

“Señor Ramírez, have you ever been to _El Bandolero?”_

“Of course I haven't, I'm not a– I don't go to that sort of place.”

Martín stops pacing, as though truly startled by a ludicrous statement.

“Well, I do. Go to that sort of place. And so does my client. It's a very nice bar. Great music and questionable drinks. And the men there… Señor Ramírez, you should see them _dance._ Some of them barely wear anything. It's obscene. You would hate it...”

Judge Tamayo clears his throat.

“Señor Berrote… Straight to the point, will you?”

“Well, _‘straight’_ might not be the best– Alright, _alright!_ My point, Ramírez, is confirming you've never been to that bar? Not once?”

“My client already answered the question”, Fonollosa cuts in.

“And I'm giving him a chance to change his answer.”

“He doesn't.”

Martín looks at Ramírez pointedly.

“I don’t”, he confirms. “Haven’t been there in my life.”

Martín allows himself to grin. To beam, really.

“Well, that was a load of bullshit. It’s a real shame your lawyer didn’t warn you not to lie in court.”

As if on cue – _exactly_ on cue – the court stenographer stands up from her forgotten corner, at the other side of the courtroom, and rolls the TV by the wall towards them.

Julia wasn’t even scheduled to work here today, but Martín knows to have allies in convenient places, and a pencil pusher from archives is always a good bet for inside deets and last minute, theatrical plans like this one. So of course he called her up ahead of time. Also, she lives for the drama.

“Your Honor, if you don’t mind, I’d like the court to watch a little video. It won’t take long, I promise.”

“This isn’t admissible”, Fonollosa starts as Julia is already turning on the screen and fiddling with the remote. “There was no video evidence on file, this is a breach of the adversarial principle and you know it.”

“Couldn’t add it to the file”, Martín sheepishly explains, performing the Shrug of Innocence. “I only got access to this footage a few hours ago.”

“And how did that happen? I don’t remember signing a warrant to seize any of that.”

That’s right. Tamayo actually _refused_ the warrant that Martín was entitled to request. Which is why he and Ánibal had to change into cat burglars overnight. Call it professional dedication.

“We only received the footage this morning”, he brushes off with a vague hand gesture. “It was sent to my office. _Anonymously...”_

“I don’t buy that for a second”, Fonollosa shoots back.

Oh no.

He really shouldn’t, but screw it. Fonollosa is literally handing it to him, and Martín meets his eyes knowingly.

“Why not? After all, anonymous tips happen _all the time,_ don’t they?”

Fonollosa’s composure is admirable, but Martín can tell he received the message. He blinks, once, twice, and quirks an eyebrow ever so slightly. He knows his game is up.

In his shock, he doesn’t show further opposition to Martín’s eleventh hour _pièce de résistance._ And in spite of Martín’s whole _‘Your Honor, if you don’t mind’_ drivel, Julia knows not to wait for permission before tilting the screen towards them and pressing play.

“There are quite a lot of things I’d like to ask Señor Ramírez, but I believe the images speak for themselves...”

There, on the colorful, HD footage from _El Bandolero’s_ security cameras, appears Mirko. Drinking and dancing. Getting really cozy with another regular Martín recognizes as Tight Shirt Fernando – not to be mixed up with Tight _Pants_ Francisco, that one was Martín’s bag, thank you – and Mirko is basically living his best life, minding his own business, when an angry looking guy walks into frame: in equally crystal clear high definition, Señor Ramírez, fidgety, frantic, clearly out of place. But undeniably staring straight at Mirko.

The courtroom naturally explodes in an uproar of questions and protests, and Martín confidently turns to the judge, both hands propped on his hips, the damning footage paused on Ramírez’s glowering, distorted face.

“As you can all see, the timestamp on the video dates this recording on the night of the sixteenth of April of this year. Just before midnight. Such a decent hour to be out partying, don’t you think?”

_“Berrote–”_

“Señor Dragic”, Martín says, enjoying the false solemnity of it all, “can you remind the court of the date of your termination?”

“The seventeenth. I got fired on the morning of April the seventeenth.”

“Not even twelve hours after being spotted at a gay bar by his notoriously homophobic boss. Who just lied about it. To this court. Twice. Now I will admit, Your Honor, that I’m no labor law specialist. But I believe we can all agree this whole thing sounds pretty fucking fishy.”

“Thank you, Berrote. That will be all.”

* * *

Martín is brilliant. A genius. The best lawyer who ever was.

Not that he's surprised by this outcome. He knew he would win – he knew he would _beat him_ – but predicting it doesn't make victory taste any less sweet.

Not even the stern talking-to he just received about court appropriate language could put a damper on his cheerful mood because, _yes Your Honor, I am aware those are all technically 'slurs', but it's not derogatory when I use them, see? Being a notorious sodomite myself, I'd say it's rather affectionate– even empowering, if you think about it… And there are so many euphemisms in every language, for instance did you know 'pillow biter' came from Hebrew? Ain't that fascinating?_

Tamayo got tired of him before Martín even reached the end of his etymology lecture, and he was finally set free to stroll down the lobby triumphantly, lightheaded and accomplished, nearly walking on air.

“We need to talk.”

He didn't expect Fonollosa to run after him – well, not run _per se,_ but catch up to him. Seek him out.

“Well, take your sweet time congratulating me. I know it can't be easy for– _the fuck?”_

Martín has barely turned towards him when he finds a firm hand clasped around his wrist, not exactly tight, but not gentle.

“Not here. _Follow me.”_

The way Fonollosa yanks at his arm like the leash of a misbehaving pitbull leaves no room for argument. And is, sadly, much more thrilling than Martín was prepared for it to be.

“Woah there, loverboy”, he squeals, even as he follows dutifully where Fonollosa leads. “How about you buy me a drink first, _then_ you can grab me wherever you like. If you paid attention, you may already know the sort of bars I'd gladly be invited to.”

Fonollosa ignores his provocation, and they apparently end their journey around the corner of a less traveled, poorly lit hallway in the East wing of the courthouse.

The warm grip around Martín's wrist loosens a bit but Fonollosa doesn't let him go entirely. And Martín is ashamed to find that he doesn't want him to. Not yet.

God, how touch starved can he get?

“That was quite something, Berrote...”

Out of all the things he expected to hear, that's definitely not it. It sounds eerily close to a compliment.

“Yeah, _awfully sorry_ about your client”, Martín quips, his arm uncomfortably still. “Nothing personal, really. Someone had to take him down a notch, and humiliating you in the process was–” _a perk, a bonus, the cherry on top_ “–unfortunate collateral damage, I suppose...”

Martín hears his own sharp intake of breath when the soft palm slides away from his arm. His skin is prickling where he touched him.

“Oh, I don't doubt for a second that you feel _terrible_ about it”, Fonollosa drawls, and Martín is pretty sure he's biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile. “If it helps soothe your guilty conscience, Dragic is not the only one to whom my client had to sign quite a generous check, today. Frankly, the outcome of his trial did not affect me that much.”

Martín feels weirdly vindicated – no, _relieved_ – to confirm that this was just about the money. That the ridiculous homophobe was never, at any point, Fonollosa's closest friend and most beloved client.

“I take it you’re not about to beat me up for making you look bad.”

“You thought I was going to _beat you up?”_

He doesn't know what he thought, but Fonollosa looks surprised, pleased, amused, and Martín thinks maybe, _maybe..._

“I’m saying that sometimes, you have that air about you like– like you could.”

“Good.”

Of course he likes that.

Oh, Fonollosa would definitely hold his own in a fight. He'd play dirty, he'd be ruthless and violent and unhinged.

“I’d have decked you, you know”, Martín sees fit to point out. “I'd wipe the floor with you. Easily.”

“Let’s not put that theory to the test, shall we? I have another hearing in ten minutes, and I rather like this suit.”

Martín loves the implication that if Fonollosa had had the time – and proper attire – he’d have gladly stuck around for a bit if a chat and a manly brawl between trusted colleagues.

“Alright, you wanted to talk. About the little family, I suppose?”

“More or less.”

The fuck does he think he's doing playing coy _now?_

“So Raquel did end up as your sister in law, after all, uh? Sunday dinner must be a special flavor of awkward when you're sitting with the dude who tried to take away your kid. But then again, you _are_ her knight in shining armor, aren't you? Or is that still classified information?”

Fonollosa heaves a deep sigh. Wondering, perhaps, if it's worth his time to try and deny it.

“I know it was you”, he pushes, still extremely aware of their conspicuous proximity. “Ugh, fine! If you had _hypothetically_ sent an anonymous tip to the courthouse to _allegedly_ expose your own client's domestic abuse, why would you have done it? _Theoretically.”_

There's a short but heavy silence. Martín is half convinced Fonollosa won't say another word when he eventually does.

“From the moment Vicuña hired me, I worked under the assumption that he was innocent. That he deserved all the work I was putting into his divorce. Preserving his reputation, securing his assets. The _child..._ I didn't know if he'd actually been a violent husband, nor did I care to find out. He was my client. I did my job. Objectively.”

That's a surprisingly ethical approach. Heartless, but sound reasoning.

“What changed your mind?”

“This.”

Fonollosa points to the spot between Martín's eyebrows – he didn't even realize he'd been frowning – and Martín tries to school his features. More or less successfully.

“That expression. You had the same, on the day or the hearing. I'd just caught you snooping, and still, you had the gall to be angrier than I was. You turned completely feral. _Enraged.”_

Martín doesn't register the insult, doesn't understand the hint of a smile that comes with it.

“When you told me he beat his wife, when you called me out and _screamed at me._ You had that exact frown.”

And there it is. His touch on him again.

Fonollosa presses his palm flat against Martín's forehead, and smoothes over the crease between his brows with the tip of his thumb. It's a gentle pressure, soothing almost, and yet it burns, scorching hot, and when did his skin get like that? Martín shouldn't be this close to running a fever.

_“Don't–”_

Fonollosa drops his hand and Martín can breathe again.

“You had that frown, and you had something else. A spark. An emotion. Burning in your eyes. Animating you from within.”

“I was pissed at you, how is that news?”

“Because you _cared._ You cared so much. About justice, about your client. Not even because she paid you. You cared about her as a person. I've never felt that. This personal implication, this– _passion._ It intrigued me.”

Martín blinks at him and gathers his thoughts.

“You looked into it because I screamed at you?”

“It's a bit of a simplification.”

Martín groans. This man. This man is the source of all of his frustrations.

“Still doesn't explain why you'd shoot yourself in the foot with those reports. You could have buried them. No one had to find out. Why did you help me?”

Fonollosa's face is blank, unreadable, but the corner of his lips is twitching. Not a sneer. Not a teasing smirk. Something Martín has yet to see, it seems.

“It's not about you, Berrote. But it's interesting that you thought it was.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

That's quite embarrassing, really. Assuming everything is about him? Peak Fonollosa behavior. _What is happening to him?_

“I didn't do it to help you”, Fonollosa repeats, because he's a dick. “You did encourage me to look for the truth, but what I chose to do with what I found, it was about my brother.”

Oh.

Of course.

Fonollosa crosses his arms in front of him, and it doesn't even make him appear closed off or defensive, as Martín definitely would if he assumed that position.

But Fonollosa is just– relaxed? Much more so than he was, a moment ago.

As though something shifted in him, an invisible weight off his shoulders, as soon as the truth was out. He must get off on showcasing what a wonderful, devoted brother he makes.

“It may come as a shock to you, but I care about Sergio quite a lot. And he seems to be quite taken with that woman. The fact that helping them also happened to advantage you was simply– how did you phrase it? _Unfortunate collateral damage.”_

Martín did not know what he would find out today.

Somehow, Fonollosa turning out to be a family man was not on his list.

And then he grins, and Martín knows he's not done with him yet.

“I also happen to have my assistant keep tabs on a lot of things for me. Wouldn't you guess what she found when she snooped through my brother's emails? Didn’t peg you for a master of blackmail, Berrote.”

“I'm _not–”_

What is he even going to say?

_I'm not a master of blackmail, turns out I suck at it actually, didn't even enjoy it._

In the end, he settles on the most hypocritical option: “I'm not like that.”

_Ugh._

“Oh no, Berrote, I quite like it. It suits you well. If your actions didn't personally threaten me or my family, I’d be impressed. Probably a little envious...”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m serious. You and I have more in common than you give yourself credit for.”

This is the most conceited bullshit Martín’s ever heard.

It’s not even the comparison between the two of them that’s offensive.

It’s that Fonollosa tries to turn it into praise.

_You’re shadier and less ethical than I thought you were, Berrote. Good job. You’re almost like me. The goal to reach. The perfect template of inglorious lawyering. Hang in there, Berrote. You might rise to my level, one day._

Unbelievable.

Martín turns on his heels, head held high, commanding by his silence, and starts walking off without another word.

His attempt at leaving with dignity is quite short-lived, and he doesn't even have the comfort of Fonollosa grabbing his arm (touching his skin) like he did before.

Instead, the bastard closes a fist around the flowy fabric at the back of his lawyer robes – betrayed by his noble court garb, _is nothing sacred anymore?_ – and he all but reins Martín in like a runaway kitten.

“What the– If I find _one_ tear in my robe you're buying me a brand new one!”

The rude hand on him lets go of his clothes.

“We’re not done, Berrote. We still need to talk about the divorce.”

Martín freezes, slowly turns around.

“Whose divorce?”

Fonollosa blinks a few times – _sure, bat your lashes at me, see if it works out for you this time around_ – and looks at Martín with eyes growing comically wide, his lips curling around a silent _‘oh’._

“Nevermind, then. I assumed you were already on the case, that you would– Well, now I’m not sure I can even say…”

It could be endearing if Martín wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was being played. He knows that look. He _does_ that look. All the time.

Saying things without actually saying them. Playing coy. Playing people.

“Ramírez is getting a divorce, isn’t he? Come on, you can tell me.”

Fonollosa gives him a lopsided little smile that should be slapped off his face.

“You know very well that I can’t. Client attorney privilege. I'm not at liberty to reveal anything.”

When Martín thinks he can’t get any less subtle, Fonollosa adds: “That's a shame, really. That one would have been right up your alley.”

The absolute fucking tease.

“Take care Berrote. I have no doubt I’ll bump into you soon enough. ”

In a flutter of robes, Andrés de Fonollosa makes the dramatic exit Martín tried and failed to pull off a minute ago.

How come _he_ gets to do it?

Did he have his lawyer robe specifically tailored to do that? If anyone would be willing to pay extra for an extra flowy theatrical effect, it's that guy.

Martín sighs.

That was an attempt to lure him in. He can tell. Fonollosa probably knows that he can tell.

But there's apparently a divorce _‘right up his alley’_ that Fonollosa thinks is _‘a shame’_ he isn't working on, and Martín would rather go down on a woman than take Fonollosa's bait.

* * *

“Mirko, talk to me. What do you know about the state of your ex-boss's marriage.”

Martín took the fucking bait.

Hook, line and sinker.

* * *

Here's a painful truth.

Fonollosa was right.

This case? Right up his alley. All over his alley. A color set and four houses and one hotel on his alley.

Ramírez’s soon to be ex-wife is a regular at _El Bandolero_.

That's why he was there in the first place. He’d gotten dumped and was tracking her down. And she was there in… mixed company. Breast wielding, vagina owning company.

Ramírez hadn't been out looking for Mirko that night. The fact that he stumbled upon one of his employees in the middle of a gay bar was a complete coincidence.

He did fire him the next day, which – considering the pretty numbers dancing all over Mirko's bank account right now – is probably the best thing that happened to him this year, but you gotta appreciate the poetic justice, the karmic ramifications of the whole–

The homophobe and the lesbian. Lawfully wedded.

Beautiful.

What if the wife hasn't hired an attorney yet, what if–

_No._

He’s not taking Fonollosa’s scraps.

Why would he seek to represent this specific client? Especially when Fonollosa clearly wants him to.

Or doesn't he?

Could be a challenge. Could be a trap.

Either way, it means he would work the case against him. Of course Martín is not doing it. He's not. That wouldn't make any sense if he did.

But then again…

Mirko smiles knowingly when he sees him picking up his phone. Martín holds his gaze.

“It's for the gays, alright. I'm doing it for the gays.”

“Okay.”

Ánibal is always quick to pick up and never bothers him with inane small talk.

“What is it this time?”

“Do we have the Ramírez wife in our files? I need an appointment with her. See if she’s hired a divorce attorney yet. If she has, tell her he’s a known zoophile. I want her.”

“Okay, on it.”

Ánibal doesn't say goodbye on the phone either. He just hangs up when he’s done. Martín likes that about him.

No matter how much Martín tells Mirko – tells himself – that he’s doing it _‘for the gays’_ , he knows it’s a load of crap.

And he's well aware that, counting Tatiana, this is now the second time Martín is actively seeking an opportunity to work with Fonollosa.

 _Against_ Fonollosa.

He wonders when he stopped begrudgingly accepting that bumping into him was inevitable, and actually started looking forward to it. Chasing it.

This can’t be a good sign.


	6. Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FROM: Andrés de Fonollosa <andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
> TO: Martín Berrote <martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
> SUBJECT: re: re: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone
> 
> Berrote,  
> I’m not opposed to discussing this further with you, but perhaps we should talk about this in person.  
> Regards,  
> Andrés de Fonollosa  
> Fonollosa & Associates – Attorneys at Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named the gay bar _‘El Bandolero’,_ because it translates to _‘the bandit’_ (or _‘the outlaw’,_ which cracks me up because, well- _lawyers_...)
> 
> Dear [boom slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap) did her thing again. Am I just talking about the beta-reading? We shall see...

Martín doesn’t like women.

He doesn’t exactly _hate_ them– well… He’s definitely not a fan, but he doesn’t have anything against them personally. It’s just not his thing. Never has been, never will be.

So women’s bodies don’t do anything for him. The thought alone rates from mildly confusing to fully horrifying, depending on the headspace he’s in.

Which is why, this early in the morning, sitting in his office at the beginning of another _fantastic_ day, Señor Martín Berrote simply wasn’t ready.

_“¡Hijo de la gran puta!”_

Ágata doesn’t even bat an eye. She hangs up her coat on the rack by the entrance and makes her way to his desk.

“And good fucking morning to you as well. Wait, don’t say anything... Arturito, right?”

With a sigh, Martín clumsily massages both of his temples. It helps a little.

“Ánibal just sent me the footage from Gaztambide's home security system. It's gross.”

“Oh, share with the class.”

Why would anyone want to see that is beyond him, but he does flip his laptop around so she, too, may witness the horrors that his eyes have already seen.

Martín always thought Ágata to be entirely straight.

Not that he ever asked – not that he particularly cares to find out what sort of girl-on-girl action may or may not have occurred at high school parties or college dorms or whatever – but her track record so far did point to Ágata being, much like himself, exclusively into dick.

At least, that’s what he’s gathered from her unbearable daydreams of a Blissful Family Life – _barf_ – with the husband and the two point five kids and the golden retriever.

So he didn’t expect… Well, _that._ From her. Gawking at the mistress’s boobs on grainy, definitely-not-pirated home security footage.

He must be staring at Ágata quite blankly because she gives him a vaguely annoyed hand gesture.

“You can fuck right off, _corazón._ You’re the one with private, _pervy_ content in your possession. You don’t get to judge _me.”_

“It’s not pervy if I hate every second of it.”

Ágata raises her eyebrows and shrugs in a way that lets him know he made a fait point.

“So what’s the issue with Mónica going topless in her own home?”

“Fast forward on the kitchen recording. Arturo is in her house.”

“Well, that was expected.”

“Arturo is _in her_.”

Ágata, braver and wiser than he is, does not take her eyes away from the screen as the video unfolds in all of its abomination.

“Why were you even watching that?”

“If I can get my hands on that footage, so can _he.”_

No need to play coy, they both know who _he_ is.

Just like they both know Martín needs to destroy everything he can find before someone else gets to it. And he’s already found a lot. An alarming lot. Cleaning up behind Arturo is like playing evidence whack-a-mole.

And know he has to go through the entire footage. Fuck that guy, really.

Well… this specific woman probably shouldn't.

Martín really didn't need to witness heterosexual intercourse before his second coffee. He wonders which of the gods is trying to punish him for his sins.

It isn't Martín's first choice to be representing Arturo Román in this divorce that happens to be – from a legal standpoint – Arturo's own damn fault.

But that's what happens when you're a small attorney in a big, impersonal, greedy corporate office. You get what you get, and you learn to shut up about it.

There's a small comfort, at least, in the knowledge that Arturito is just as unhappy about his representation as Martín is unhappy about his client.

The Románs have had the same family lawyer for years. A trusted, reliable, very expensive attorney by the sweet name of Andrés de Fonollosa. Obviously.

So when Laura Román suspected her husband of infidelity, the very first thing that she did was write the words _“Fonollosa & Associates”_ on a big fat check and put him on retainer.

That thing when a bratty kid licks every single cookie in the box so no one else can have any? She did that. Well, the divorce equivalent of that.

_Dibs! Got here first! This one's mine!_

Fonollosa has been claimed, and now Martín has to make do with the leftovers.

It’s insulting. But at least, when all else fails to fuel him, Martín will always have spite left in him.

He might not have a lot of nice things to say about Arturo Román, but his divorce file displays the words _Representation:_ _Martín Berrote_.

And if preserving his good name isn't reason enough, there is Fonollosa's name in there too, provoking him, taunting him. Right next to the name of the woman that is laughably _easy_ to represent. The faithful wife, dutiful mother of three. Cheated on and scorned by her spineless husband. Fonollosa can say whatever he wants about Arturito, and Martín will most likely agree with him; but let Martín try to say _one thing_ about sweet, innocent Laura Román, and suddenly the wrath of God shall strike him dead.

Martín doesn't know when, or how, or what, but he _will_ find a way to turn this around. He will do every single thing he can to stick it to Andrés de fucking Fonollosa.

All of this, of course, in order to _help Arturo_. Because everyone deserves fair and just representation – and all the other songs Martín sings to himself when he pretends ethics matter to him.

“Oh my– you _have_ to see this.”

“I really don't.”

Ágata ignores his trauma and drops his tainted laptop back in front of his face. Rude.

“Martín, you don't know Denver, do you?”

“Is that a person? No, I don't think we've met. Why?”

“Because he's in Mónica's bush.”

“Ew! Gross! Haven't I suffered enough?”

Ágata rolls her eyes at him.

“It's not a euphemism. He is _literally_ hiding in her bush. Look, that's the footage from her backyard– don't make that face, it's not a euphemism either.”

And indeed there is a young man in– fuck it, _in_ _Mónica's bush._ In her backyard. Hiding, crouching in the vegetation behind her house, holding a pair of binoculars in one hand and a notepad in the other.

Complete with the hat and–

“Is that a fucking trenchcoat?”

He couldn't look sketchier if he tried.

The creep seems to be trying – and struggling – to get a good look at what exactly is unfolding inside the house.

“Ágata… how the fuck do you know that guy?”

“We're drinking buddies. If you ever came to happy hour, you'd know my friends already.”

“I don't go to straight bars, you know that.”

“You're missing out. Denver's the best at karaoke. And you'd like my college roommate, she bitches about Fonollosa almost as often as you do.”

Oh, right. Martín keeps forgetting Ágata is on friendly terms with the wicked witch of the east. Traitors all around. He's glad he never hangs out with those people.

A little more prying from Martín – and a whole lot of oversharing from Ágata – eventually leads them to the website. Very basic. Ánibal would call it a _beta version_ or some shit. But pretty straightforward.

* * *

> _**Denver Private Investigation** _
> 
> _I_ _s your wife acting suspiciously?_  
>  _Do you fear your best friend meets up with other secret best friends behind your back?_  
>  _What does your cat do when you're at work?_  
>  _With Denver P.I., those questions are questions no more. Our star detective D. Ramos will keep track of your loved ones for you._  
>  _Regular updates, quality pictures, absolute discretion._  
>  _For a reasonable fee, you too can uncover the truth. Never trust anyone. Hire us today._
> 
> _Denver P.I., Madrid._
> 
> _UPDATE: now collaborating with renowned law practice FONOLLOSA & ASSOCIATES!!!!!_

* * *

“Ágata, tell me he's joking. This has to be satire, he can’t just...”

“Knowing him, I don't think so.”

_“Absolute discretion?”_

“I love him, but he's not bright.”

Well. It's good for Martín, at least.

“Can you screenshot that website?”

“Do it yourself, I'm not your fucking assistant.”

“If I had to pick an assistant, I wouldn’t hire a _woman.”_

Martín bites back a pained groan when Ágata kicks him in the leg. That one really hurt. And maybe he deserved it.

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **TO:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** STOP SPYING ON MY CLIENT  
 **ATTACHMENT:** (1) denver-website-screenshot.jpg

> Shitty morning to you, cheating cheater who cheats at everything!!!
> 
> Your boy Denver is NOT SLICK and neither are you!!! (see attachment)
> 
> Arturito may be a dick swab, but he's MY dick swab to deal with. Go spy on your own clients.
> 
> Actually you probably should, cause I can tell you right away that the wife is FILTHY!!!!! She's too good and proper not to have DARK SECRETS (e.g. untreated kleptomania; cannibalism; gimp outfits in the closet) and most importantly she willingly fucked Arturito at least THREE TIMES, please wake up!!
> 
> Lots of love, hugs and kisses
> 
> The Good Lawyer

* * *

**FROM:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **TO:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** re: STOP SPYING ON MY CLIENT

> Good morning Berrote,
> 
> Poetry comes naturally to you, doesn't it? Have you considered a career in the arts?
> 
> I do thank you for bringing this issue to my attention. You helped me more than you know.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Andrés de Fonollosa  
> Fonollosa & Associates – Attorneys at Law

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **TO:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** re: re: STOP SPYING ON MY CLIENT

> Hey, I’m not helping you, I’m calling you out. Read the room, pal!!

* * *

**FROM:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **TO:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** Let him who is without sin cast the first stone

> Berrote,
> 
> I take it that you’re pure and innocent as the newborn lamb. Assuming that someone associated with my reputable practice did, in fact – allegedly – hire the services of a private investigator, you must have come across this information... by chance? By pure coincidence? Certainly not by snooping around in any way, the very act of which you are accusing me of.
> 
> No, you would never do that, and then have the audacity to take the moral high ground. You’re not that sort of hypocrite.
> 
> Respectfully,
> 
> Andrés de Fonollosa  
> Fonollosa & Associates – Attorneys at Law

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **TO:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** re: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone

> You think you're so fucking smart, don't you?
> 
> Your guy was hiding in the BUSHES, Andrés. He fell off a tree and he triggered the front lawn sprinklers. Twice. That's not the top shelf service you think it is.

* * *

**FROM:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **TO:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** re: re: Let him who is without sin cast the first stone

> Berrote,
> 
> I’m not opposed to discussing this further with you, but perhaps we should talk about this in person.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Andrés de Fonollosa  
> Fonollosa & Associates – Attorneys at Law

* * *

This is unexpected.

This could be quite interesting. Or really, really weird.

 _Don't make it weirder,_ says the voice in Martín's head. _For God's sake, Berrote, don't you dare make it any weirder._

* * *

**FROM:** Martín Berrote  
<martin_berrote_pro@madrid-legal.com>  
 **TO:** Andrés de Fonollosa  
<andres.de.fonollosa@fonollosa-associates.com>  
 **SUBJECT:** IT'S A DATE!!!!!!!!!

> 21:30 @ El Bandolero  
> Dress code: slutty-casual
> 
> See you tonight, hot stuff!

* * *

He’s not going to be late.

This may be the clandestine lawyer meetup of a lifetime, and Martín Berrote is not going to be fucking late.

He just spent a good portion of his afternoon with Arturo Román. Which is not exactly his idea of a pleasant workday. But apparently, Martín’s job is now to babysit his clients so they’ll stop sticking their dick into their mistresses. At least, up until the separation is pronounced.

It's the _third_ time Arturo has needed to be reminded of this.

What is it with lady-parts that makes straight guys so fucking dense?

In spite of his – sadly familiar – workaholic fatigue, Martín feels somewhat restless right now. Which is just ridiculous. He’s had to deal with Fonollosa countless times over the years.

And yet tonight feels different.

This may be about work, but this isn’t a work setting. No, this time, they’re meeting up. Worse, they’re _sneaking around._ Which seems– for lack of a better word, intimate. Like they’re sharing something.

Also, for added flavor, Martín chose to meet up in a gay bar. Tonight’s goal, if his fate allows it, is to see Fonollosa uncomfortable. To watch him squirm in his seat, turn around nervously, glaring at the half naked men dancing on tables right behind him.

Oh, how he longs to see that.

By the time he parks his car on a side street by the bar. Martín is brimming with anticipation, borderline _jittery._

He hopes he didn't miss the main event.

If Fonollosa gets here before he does, Martín won’t get to witness the priceless face he's going to make when he walks into _El Bandolero_. Surely, there were disgruntled looks, awkward shuffling. Frustrated sighs and eyerolls, perhaps.

What if he never knows?

A tragedy.

* * *

The music in the bar is pleasantly, dizzyingly loud, and the place is a bit crowded for a weeknight, but Martín spots him the moment he walks in.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that.

His colleague and sworn enemy seems entirely unaffected by the setting. He’s casually sitting at the bar, his posture impeccable even on one of those dreadful tall chairs, as he's making polite conversation with Mirko behind the counter. All relaxed smiles, not a hint of discomfort in him.

This is unreal.

Worse: Fonollosa actually did heed his advice because he’s not wearing one of his usual three-piece suits, which is already a shock on its own.

He’s got a sweater on. _A sweater._ A wine red turtleneck, and that’s just– that’s a lot.

That's too much and too little, it looks soft, it envelopes his figure just right, it's–

Martín snaps out of it.

He takes a deep breath, puts on his brightest smile and makes his way to the bar.

“You look familiar”, he jokes as he plops down onto the seat next to Fonollosa. “Come here often?”

“You're late, Berrote.”

Martín lets out an exaggerated sigh. No fake flirting tonight, then. Straight to business. Okay.

“Blame it on Arturito.”

Fonollosa raises an eyebrow but doesn't request further explanation. It’s kind of comforting. At last, someone to understand his torment.

“So this is the famous _Bandolero”,_ he says instead, looking around. “Fascinating.”

“You'd never been to a gay bar before? You're not curious?”

“I wasn't, no”, Fonollosa admits, looking detached. Amused. “It’s not at all how I imagined it. None of the bars I usually go to have this sort of… _atmosphere.”_

Andrés de Fonollosa, Infamous Lothario, Straightest Man on Earth, should _not_ feel at ease in the middle of a gay bar. And still, he doesn't look out of place. Even worse, he looks _good_. But then again, he always looks good.

Martín realizes he’s starting to sweat like an idiot and quickly slips out of his leather jacket before it gets any worse. He’s forgone his boring work appropriate suit as well, in favor of his usual clubbing attire – tight tee, tight jeans, tight everything – and with how bare and exposed he’s feeling right now, it dawns on him just a bit too late that it might have been a grave mistake.

This is ridiculous. The whole point of tonight was that Martín would be in his element and Fonollosa _wouldn’t._ How did this get out of hand already?

“Berrote, I can think of a few dozen places all over the city that would have been much better suited for this sort of– _meeting_ we’re having. Why did it have to be here?”

Because Martín wanted to make Fonollosa uncomfortable and laugh in his face as he watched him squirm. Not that it worked, but that was the plan.

“No one from work will ever find us here”, Martín says instead, which is also true. “And let's say someone does spot us, what are they gonna think? That we're fucking, right? That I'm showing you a good time. Not… you know. Conspiring about our clients.”

“That's clever.”

_“I know.”_

“We are not _actually_ conspiring, though.”

“Of course not.”

Both of their grins are saying otherwise.

“But yeah, I can already tell this is gonna be a long one. The Románs. It's better if we’re– mildly civil?”

“How wise”, Fonollosa coos, like he's surprised Martín is capable of being reasonable.

He probably _is_ genuinely surprised. He's a jerk.

“Fonollosa… Not that I'm complaining, I love that I got you through that door, believe me. But why did you want to meet in person in the first place?”

“For privacy reasons. Email is not– I don't trust it.”

“Because you're technologically inept?”

“Because I suspect a hacker was involved in several of my cases.”

Martín doesn't miss a beat before he bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god, you’re so paranoid!”, he adds for good measure.

Fonollosa is right on the money, of course. Fucking bull’s eye. That's precisely what happened.

Martín got Ánibal – correction, he got _Río_ – to hack into Mónica Gaztambide's home security system, and help him break into this very bar to steal security footage, and do quite a lot of other shady shit Fonollosa probably has no idea about.

It's such a thrill. Having knowledge Fonollosa is oblivious to. A rare treat.

Martín keeps laughing for a little while longer, and makes sure it sounds like his hacker theory is just _silly._

He wonders how much more unethical it would get if he got Río to actually hack into his private stuff? Fonollosa’s phone, his computer. The security cameras of his office.

(The risky pictures he could have misplaced on some cloud).

Martín won’t do it, though.

It shouldn't make a difference, with everything else he's done. But somehow, invading Fonollosa's privacy in that way is a line he won't bring himself to cross.

No matter how curious he is.

Without a word, Mirko materializes out of thin air behind the bar. He drops two drinks on the counter in front of them before he bolts again.

This isn't any of Martín's usual orders, which means Mirko didn't pick that for them.

Fonollosa ordered those drinks before Martín got here.

He doesn’t know what alcohol it is – unhelpfully, it's green – but both glasses are very tall and smell of something lethal, and with the day Martín's had that’s exactly what he needs right now.

He reaches for his drink, ready to gulp it down without a second thought, when a hand slides around Martín's wrist and slams it onto the counter. Hard.

“I don’t think so, Berrote.”

The first thought that pierces through the haze of Martín's brain is: _fuck, that's hot._

Fonollosa's fingers are still digging into his forearm, and yet his voice was perfectly calm and even when he spoke. Detached.

“What?”, Martín croaks, carefully pulling his arm free. “Don't tell me you ordered both drinks just for yourself… Okay, nevermind, I totally would have done that.”

“You took your time to get here”, he explains. “You’ve made me _wait_. Now you and I are doing this properly.”

Fonollosa grabs his own drink and raises it between them.

Tentatively, Martín takes the other glass to mirror him.

“So what are we drinking to?”

“To the Románs, of course.”

He laughs and clicks his glass against Fonollosa's.

“To the Román divorce”, Martín announces, falsely formal. “May it be long and convoluted. May they both be petty and unreasonable.”

Fonollosa graces that with a laugh of his own, and at last, they drink. Martín downs a good half his glass in one gulp, welcoming the familiar burn of alcohol after a long fucking day.

Well, not so familiar.

The liquid annihilates his taste buds, blazes through his throat, ignites his chest. Martín coughs, loud and painful, his head shaking from the intensity.

God, that drink is fucking strong.

Why the fuck would Andrés– _Fonollosa_ pick that rat poison for them?

It smells of rubbing alcohol and permanent markers. Kiwi flavored? With an aftertaste of liver disease.

Fonollosa looks just as affected as Martín, at least. His eyes are wide, his breathing labored.

Martín finds very charming the way he twists his mouth, wincing at the taste.

“Let me guess... you're a wine kinda guy and nothing else is worthy of your delicate palate?”

“If you remember, I also enjoy the occasional scotch.”

He bites his lip as he smiles, almost like it’s a secret between them. Martín likes that idea more than he cares to admit.

“Scotch isn’t any less pretentious of a choice”, he remarks.

“Duly noted. And you do have a point, Berrote. Wine is… There’s nothing quite like it. I was actually in the mood for Chianti tonight. But I didn't find what I was looking for.”

“Wait, so what did we just drink?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

How is this man even real?

When Martín keeps staring at him, Fonollosa adds: “I knew I would have to interact with you tonight, possibly for an extended period of time, so I asked the bartender for the strongest liquor they had. For my own sanity.”

Martín finds himself laughing again, surprised at how much of a good time he’s been having so far. He knows it can't all be blamed on the drink that's barely in his system. He wasn't expecting Fonollosa to be so– normal, tonight. Chill. Approachable.

“So”, Martín starts, trying to get back on track. “Ramos? I mean, Andrés, where did you even find that guy?”

Fonollosa does not comment on the shift from last to first name. Good. Because Martín isn't sure he can explain that slip up. It just came to him naturally. It keeps happening.

“My personal assistant recommended Denver to me. I could have fired her when I saw the website.”

“But you didn’t? Fire her, I mean. You showed _mercy_. I can’t believe it.”

Fonollosa shakes his head, smiling.

“Silene has made herself irreplaceable. No one else can ward off undesirable clients quite like she does. She has the perfect blend of charm and aggressivity, an innate gift for professional rudeness. They don’t teach that in any school.”

He speaks about it wistfully, with admiration in his voice. Almost emotion.

“Did you tear Ramos a new one, at least?”, Martín asks, before risking another sip of his drink.

“I didn’t hurt him _too much”_ , he jokes.

At least Martín _hopes_ it’s a joke.

But the quirk of Fonollosa’s lips, the calmness in his voice, imply that Denver got at least shaken up a bit. That Fonollosa was _not kind._ He put the fear of god in the poor boy, didn’t he?

Which is… unsettling.

But not sexy. No, of course it isn’t sexy.

“I did get his website taken down”, Fonollosa continues. “Thank you for the tip, Berrote. That could have reflected poorly on the practice.”

Martín could protest, remind him that he didn't email him to tip him off, he was calling him out, _come on, do keep up with the programme._

But Fonollosa gives him a short tap on the shoulder, like he’s actually grateful for his precious help.

Martín feels a tingle coursing down his neck. That’s definitely the alcohol. He downs the rest of his drink.

“Why were you even tailing Arturito? We _know_ he's a piece of shit. That's an unquestioned fact of the universe. What more proof do you need?”

Andrés seems to hesitate for a while. As though he’s gauging whether Martín is worthy of a truthful answer.

“In all honesty, we have nothing. All the evidence pertaining to the adultery is purely circumstantial. We have no hard proof that he even looked at another woman. No photos, no testimony, _nada.”_

Martín's first instinct is to call bullshit. He's been trained to be wary of any statement that starts with _‘in all honesty’_. Especially coming from Fonollosa.

“Why would you tell me this? That’s very helpful to me.”

“I suppose I want to give you a fighting chance. I’ve grown to find your incompetence endearing. It can’t hurt if I throw you a bone or two.”

“I’ve finished my drink, but I can still break the empty glass on your skull.”

“I’m sure you would”, Andrés says, not perturbed in the slightest by the threat of violence.

He looks different.

Perhaps the liquor has softened him a bit. He’s leaning on his hand, elbow propped on the counter, and looking over at Martín through half closed lids, a lazy smile on his face. Relaxed. Open.

No.

That’s too powerful of an image for Martín to have in his memory.

Cognitive dissonance. That's what this is. The Fonollosa he's known for years, the Andrés that's smiling at him over the rim of his glass… they don't match. Martín's brain is straining as it tries to reconcile them both into one.

This isn't even about the clothes; although, that fucking turtleneck, when Martín had never seen him in anything besides fancy suits and neatly pressed lawyer robes... Well, it does weird things to him.

There's also the way he’s acting. How he holds himself, how relaxed he allows himself to be.

Martín plucked Andrés out of his natural habitat, hoping for something to happen, something entertaining. But he didn't once consider it would be this.

That it would be easy to be around him.

Well, they _have_ shared a drink before. Was that the secret recipe all along? Is an inebriated Fonollosa the only one Martín can be friends with?

God, he hopes not. He hopes–

He's not sure exactly.

Tonight, he hopes for a truce. Let's start there.

“You should know”, Andrés continues, still giving him that confusing smile like it's a normal thing to do, “that I'm going to get Laura Román everything. The house, the kids, the cars. The savings accounts. Even the beach house. _Everything._ Just a fair warning.”

This is a challenge, but there’s no anger to it. He’s playful. Martín likes that color on him.

“How can you be so sure? Since you have _no proof of any adultery._ For all you know, Arturo Román has been a devoted and faithful husband. Maybe the wife is a lying whore and made it all up.”

“Oh, I don’t have proof, but I know for a fact he cheated on her. That he is _still_ cheating on her. I’m sure of it. Actually, you’re the one who told me. _”_

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Andrés takes his sweet time to finish his drink, leaving Martín on the edge of his seat, before he puts him out of his misery.

“I hired Denver to keep tabs on Mónica Gaztambide. Not on Arturo Román. But you couldn't have known that, could you? So you emailed me, had your little outburst. Because you assumed Denver was tailing _him._ For you to jump to that conclusion, it can only mean that Román recently met up with his mistress.”

Okay, that's–

“Shit!”

“Once again, thank you Berrote. Truly.”

The taunting remarks can keep coming all night if he wants.

Martín can take it.

He’s enjoying himself too much to care about a few quips here and there.

“Why did you even hire a detective agency?”

Fonollosa sighs.

“My clients have the very infuriating habit of lying to me. I'm a better lawyer if I know everything about them. Doesn’t matter if they choose to disclose it themselves, or if I find out on my own.”

“Is that very ethical, Señor de Fonollosa?”

“That's rich coming from you”

“My conscience is clear.”

“Oh really?”, Fonollosa challenges, straightening up on his seat, ready for the kill. “So you've never encouraged a client of yours to– let’s say, go on a date with my brother in an attempt to get me taken off the case? You’ve never sought to counsel Señora Ramírez, even though you have a personal connection with a former employee of her husband? Are _ethics_ truly that important to you, _Señor Berrote?”_

Martín is floored.

“I recognized the bartender from the moment I walked in”, Andrés continues. “Dragic, was it? From the work discrimination lawsuit. How wonderful that he found another job... But he was never just a client to you. You two are _close.”_

“Mirko's just a friend!”, Martín blurts out, even though he knows that’s not the point.

“A friend who was wrongfully terminated by my client. And now, you're representing his wife in the divorce. One could accuse you of having a personal vendetta.”

“Mirko had nothing to do with me taking on the Ramírez divorce, and you know it.”

Martín sought to represent that client because it would get him to work opposite Andrés again. Which he obviously cannot explain right now without sounding like a creep. So he shuts up. And motions for Mirko to keep the drinks coming.

Their empty glasses are soon full of the toxic liquor again, and Fonollosa clicks their drinks like he did the first time.

“To the Románs?”, Martín hazards.

Andrés makes a pensive face.

“To our collaboration.”

Martín is so fucking glad he showed up tonight.

Andrés still winces at the first sip of his drink, and Martín tries not to laugh at him too overtly.

“Our _collaboration_ , uh?”, Martín drawls with barely hidden enthusiasm. “Who would have thought?”

“Well, yes, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other”, Fonollosa decides. “As you said, this is shaping up to be a long divorce. We might as well coordinate.”

That sounds sensible.

That sounds _fun._

Martín isn’t sure why.

“My my, are we upgrading from penpals to drinking buddies?”

“This is work related, Berrote.”

We'll see about that.

Before he forgets, he sets his phone on the counter and slides it over to Andrés.

“Here, put in your number”, he explains. “So I can hit you up next time I need a break from Arturito.”

“That's not what this is for”, Andrés grumbles, reluctantly typing his number in Martín's phone.

When he’s done, Andrés hands him back his phone and Martín plucks it from his hand with extreme caution like it just gained value. He tucks into the back pocket of his jeans.

Martín most definitely wears the victorious grin of someone who just pulled an amazing prank, because Andrés deems necessary to add: “Please, don't abuse this trust I'm putting in you.”

As if he would _ever._

“You have nothing to worry about, I promise. I'll only text you my best jokes and my sluttiest nudes.”

Andrés sighs deeply, as though he regrets his decision already, but Martín doesn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches, ever so slightly. The left corner. The one that lifts first when he smiles, Martín always noticed.

“So... Fonollosa, my new bestie”, he teases, “we’re done with business for today?”

“It seems we are.”

Their eyes meet and a silence settles between them without making it even a little uncomfortable.

Martín is almost getting uncomfortable because of how _not uncomfortable_ they both are around each other. Which is a normal thing to feel.

So he downs the last of his second drink and immediately jumps to his feet, and– _wow!_

He shouldn’t have done that. The drinking fast and the moving faster. Definitely not in that order.

The lights are fuzzy and the floor is swaying, and look! He’s got legs! Those legs are jelly at the moment but Martín _has_ them, wouldn’t you know?

Sadly, waving his arms around doesn’t help, because Martín stumbles and trips and falls.

He’s bracing himself for the crash of his body on the hard floor, for the pain in his joints, for the _humiliation_ of it.

But it never comes.

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize he didn’t actually fall.

Instead, there’s a pressure on his waist.

Where Fonollosa’s arms are wrapped around him.

“Shit!”

Martín can’t see anything beyond red. Soft and dark and deliciously warm _red_.

“You’re welcome, Berrote.”

When Andrés speaks, Martín feels movement against his face.

Because – as he soon gathers – his cheek is pressed against Andrés’s sweater. Against Andrés’s _chest._

He peels himself from the wall of warmth he was stuck to and holds onto Andrés’s shoulders to try and straighten up, squirming into the arms still tightly wrapped around him.

They’re both standing now. Martín should really get his hands back to himself, that would be the normal thing to do, and the curious way Andrés is eyeing him is conveying a crystal clear _‘any day now, Berrote, we’re all waiting on you’._

But Martín’s hands are fisted around the soft fabric of Andrés’s turtleneck and his fingers are too stiff, too numb, he just can’t move them.

“I would call you a walking disaster”, Andrés mocks, “but it would imply _‘walking’_ , and that doesn’t seem to be an option right now, is it?”

Martín’s whole body is burning. His face most of all.

“Sticky fucking floors”, he mumbles with a glare.

And because he’s chaotic like that, Martín doubles down and fully drapes himself all over Andrés. On purpose, this time. Arms thrown around his neck, all up in his space, body so close their knees are bumping.

“A dance, _Fonollosa?”,_ he provokes, steady on his feet again.

“In your dreams, perhaps.”

Andrés’s breath hits his face as he speaks.

“Your loss, Fonollosa. Believe me.”

He finally manages to detangle himself from Andrés. At least, for now.

“I guess you’ll just have to watch me, then...”

With his eyes still on him, Martín slowly makes his way towards the more crowded part of the room. Where the dancefloor is. He starts moving his arms around a lot and sticks out his tongue towards Andrés, still looking at him from the bar. Andrés might be grinning. In the dark, he’s not sure.

Martín focuses a bit more on his movements. His steps aren’t as coordinated as they would be if he were fully sober right now, but he trusts his dancing abilities even in that state. On the dancefloor he’s really good with his hips, or so he’s been told, and for some reason Fonollosa needs to know that about him.

Martín’s dizziness is slowly coming back, his body already swaying to the rhythm of the music. It’s so much louder from the dancefloor, he can almost feel the beat of the bass in his bones.

When he can’t stand it anymore, pretending to ignore Andrés when he is _right here_ , just behind him, Martín hazards a look back over his shoulder and nearly stumbles over his feet.

Andrés is still here, but he’s no longer looking his way. Or anywhere. His eyes are closed, as though truly basking in the _atmosphere,_ as he mentioned earlier; not even sarcastically, Martín realizes. This place is new and intriguing to him, and he seems to soak in it, let it absorb him, the techno music and the deadly liquors and the clubbing, and all those things that are most definitely _not his scene._ Martín should probably be impressed that Andrés didn’t bolt the moment he walked into the place.

And because he can, Martín allows himself to admire him just a little.

He’s still close enough that he can make out the features of Andrés’s face, transformed, almost ethereal under the ever changing flickers of the strobe lights. Hues of pink and blue highlight his hair, his forehead, the curve of his nose. Flashing beams of purple are dancing across his cheekbones, hollowing out his face, making his features even sharper.

Andrés is breathtaking in his stillness. A statue painted in streaks of light, colored into motion.

There is no flutter of lashes to warn him before Andrés’s eyes flash open, landing on him again.

Still vaguely dancing, Martín winks at him provocatively, really milking this whole excuse of _‘I’m tipsy so it’s totally okay for me to flirt with you because it’s in a playful, non-threatening way’._

Or perhaps he simply _is_ tipsy and flirty and playful. It does sound like him.

The patented Fonollosa Eyeroll that he receives as an answer, Martín is pretty sure, is Andrés disguising his amusement as annoyance.

Martín turns away then, wondering if the moving rays across Fonollosa’s face were sketching the hint of a smile.

The music is coursing through him, or perhaps it’s the drinks, but his skin is tingling deliciously and for the time being, he’s content with letting the dancing crowd swallow him whole.

Andrés never joins him for a dance.

When Martín looks over at the bar again, who knows how much later, no one’s eyes are on him and Andrés’s seat is empty.

* * *

**Unread texts from BERROTE** **(19)**

> **(22:19)** _rude!!!!!!!!!_  
>  **(22:23)** _you left cause i'm too good of a dancer is that it?_  
>  **(22:24)** _you couldn’t bear to watch me_  
>  **(22:30)** _2 hot 2 handle_

> **(01:47)** _by the way don’t think i didn’t notice how you INTERROGATED ME_  
>  **(01:48)** _trying to find out if mirko’s my boyfriend or something_  
>  **(01:51)** _good thing i’m immune to your lawyer tactics!!_  
>  **(01:53)** _at last, you have found your match! a worthy opponent_  
>  **(01:56)** _and i even question back: WHY do you wanna know if we’re together?_  
>  **(02:00)** _you’re into me, aren’t you?_  
>  **(02:01)** _yeah you saw me dancing you want a piece of that_  
>  **(02:05)** _amigo, do i have good news for you_  
>  **(02:07)** _yes, the legends are true, i’m still on the market to be courted and wed_  
>  **(02:09)** _and since you’re an absolute dickhead guess what_  
>  **(02:09)** _DING DING DING_  
>  **(02:09)** _you’re exactly my type_

> **(02:32)** _you’re curious admit it_  
>  **(02:39)** _it’s okay andrés_  
>  **(02:41)** _i know u want me_

* * *

It’s pretty late into the night – or quite early in the morning – when Martín checks his phone again. And he’s got a message. One message.

Oh, right.

He texted his new buddy.

Of course.

Martín was around his fifth drink when it occurred to him that he had urgent stuff to tell Fonollosa. He remembers now.

With bleary eyes and blurry fingers, he unlocks his phone to read his colleague’s message.

**Unread text from FONOLLOSA 🔪 (1)**

> **(02:45) Please tell me you’re not driving yourself home tonight.**

Yep. Martín _is_ pretty drunk. Well, it’s not his fault if Mirko keeps sending him cocktails on the house. Of course, he’s gonna gulp down each and every one of them with equal enthusiasm. He’s a good friend like that.

So it takes Martín quite a while – and a lot of focus – to type out his reply. _Replies_ , plural.

* * *

**Unread texts from BERROTE (24)**

> **(02:56)** _awwww you're worried about little old me???_  
>  **(02:57)** _i'm so touched i just might cry_  
>  **(02:57)** _have no fear i'm not driving 2nite_  
>  **(02:58)** _mirko's taking me home after his shift_  
>  **(02:59)** _i mean he’s driving_  
>  **(03:02)** _he’s not drinking and he’s driving my car home and sleeping over at my place but just as friends_  
>  **(03:03)** _JUST AS FRIENDS!!!_  
>  **(03:04)** _that ass is all yours bby_  
>  **(03:22)** _are u asleep already?_  
>  **(03:23)** _i wonder what you wear in bed..._  
>  **(03:34)** _do you sleep naked??_  
>  **(03:36)** _please let it be naked_  
>  **(03:41)** _okay I'm calling it, you're wearing old man pajamas right now_  
>  **(03:44)** _or like a pretentious dressing gown with stupid patterns_  
>  **(03:44)** _i bet it's silk or satin or some shit_  
>  **(03:44)** _very very thin_  
>  **(03:45)** _soft to the touch_  
>  **(03:45)** _and the belt is tied dangerously loose_  
>  **(03:45)** _one wrong movement and the whole thing bursts open_  
>  **(03:45)** _and what is that?_  
>  **(03:46)** _oh no... you're not wearing anything underneath_  
>  **(03:46)** _and you don't have any cash to pay for your pizza_  
>  **(03:46)** _well that's a shame_  
>  **(03:46)** _i’m sure we can figure something out…_ ;)

* * *

Martín could have woken up with many a bitter taste on his tongue.

The flavor of the actual alcoholic drinks he kept chugging, bravely, consistently, all night long.

The tangy aroma of his own drunk texting, that he unleashed upon an unsuspecting colleague who'd just barely started being vaguely polite to him.

The aftertaste of confusion. Shame. Regret.

What Martín wakes up to, instead, is a heavenly smell. Scents of tomato and mushroom and Italy.

He wakes up to that.

That, and a devastating, skull-splitting noise.

* * *

**Text conversation between BERROTE and FONOLLOSA 🔪**

> **(05:17)** _LA CONCHA DE TU MADRE_

> **(05:19)** **Good morning, Berrote.**  
>  **(05:19)** **How was your night?**  
>  **(05:20)** **I do hope you managed to get some rest, it really sounded like you needed a lot of it.**

> **(05:21)** _FONOLLOSA_  
>  **(05:21)** _SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE MY ADDRESS??_

> **(05:25)** **I believe the polite greeting here is "good morning Andrés and thank you for the gift"**

> **(05:26)** _what the fuck_  
>  **(05:27)** _WHAT THE FUCK_  
>  **(05:27)** _why would you set the delivery at FIVE IN THE FUCKING MORNING??_

> **(05:29)** **Your drunken incoherence of last night entertained me greatly.**  
>  **(05:30)** **I thought I’d repay the favor with a friendly gesture.**  
>  **(05:31)** **You were craving pizza, weren’t you?**  
>  **(05:31)** **You were craving a lot of things, I wasn’t sure...**  
>  **(05:32)** **But I’ve been told pizza makes for a wonderful hangover cure.**

> **(05:34)** _NOT WHEN MY HEAD IS POUNDING LIKE THAT YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH_

> **(05:35)** **Ah, yes.**  
>  **(05:35)** **My mistake.**  
>  **(05:36)** **I figured you might be asleep, so to make sure you wouldn't miss out, my instructions were not to give up under any circumstances until you collected the order, no matter how long it took.**  
>  **(05:36)** **It wasn’t a problem for you, was it?**

> **(05:37)** _bastard banged on my door like a fucking carpenter for a solid fifteen minutes_

> **(05:38)** **Splendid.**  
>  **(05:38) I’ll remember to add a generous tip, then.**  
>  **(05:39)** **Wouldn’t want you to have to worry about payment.**  
>  **(05:39)** **It’s all taken care of, by the way. You can keep your dressing gown closed.**

> **(05:40)** _i wish you were dead_

> **(05:40)** **Bon appétit, Berrote.**

Fanart by [boom slap](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1363550603700547586?s=19) ♡

**Author's Note:**

> ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️ ⚖️  
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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